‘Mommy, Did You Lose My Daddy?’ Explaining Abandonment To Your Child

There’s no guide to explaining to young children why their father left, as Katerina Zacharia—the mother of Demitri and Jaya—found out. But she’s going with her gut, and she’s doing just fine.

The other day, we were driving home after the daycare pickup when Demitri cocked his head to the side and in the same tone he uses when he cannot find his favorite toy jet or lego set asked, “Mommy, did you lose my daddy?” I paused for just a moment, looked at the road ahead and responded as if his question were about his toy jet, “Ya know baby bear, I think he lost us.”

The answer met his needs. My son is three years old. He doesn’t remember his daddy. We left when he was one year old. He’s only, in the last few months, begun to ask about his daddy. It’s his daycare buddies—he watches as their dads come to pick them up and wonders where his daddy might be, who he might be, and why is he so far away. The first time he asked, “Where is my daddy,” I answered quite honestly, “In New Zealand.” I showed him where New Zealand was on the globe and then, I asked him if he’d like to see pictures of his daddy. Of course, he did. After a few photos, he said, “I want to see pictures of my mommy now.”

I’m not sure if I’m doing it correctly. I’m sure I might have already broken every child psychology rule of thumb when it comes to explaining abandonment to small children. And, frankly, I don’t give a shit. I’m pretty sure the greatest task as a parent I will ever have is helping my children throughout their lives understand their father’s choice to disappear from their lives. The strategy is simple. Kind, honest, and slow. I refuse to talk junk about their father. And, I refuse to grace each of them with rose-colored glasses.

At 3 1/2…

Jaya: Mommy, daddy fills my bucket, not you.

Me: Who is here?

Jaya: Mommy

Me: Who fills your bucket?

Jaya: Mommy

At 3 ¾…

Jaya: Remember when daddy used to get really angry and drive really fast?

Me: Yes, I do

Jaya: You don’t drive fast

Me: No, I don’t

At 4…

Jaya: Why did daddy stay in New Zealand?

Me: I don’t know, but I know he loves you and is very proud of you.

At 4 1/2…

Jaya: Who bought me this dress?

Me: I did, sweetie. I buy everything we have.

Jaya: Can’t daddy buy us a house?

Me: No, he doesn’t buy us anything. It’s all me.

Jaya: Why not? Shouldn’t daddies take care of their children?

Me: Yes they should and I’m very disappointed your dad isn’t here for you and your brother.

At 5…

Jaya: I miss daddy.

Me: I know you do. I’m sorry that he is not here with you.

Jaya: We left because you had a fight?

Me: We had many fights and he didn’t want to work. I needed to take care of you guys.

Jaya: Why isn’t he with us?

Me: Some people have empty buckets and it is hard for them to love the way we need them to love us. Your daddy has a really sad hurt. He loves you. He just doesn’t know how.

Jaya: I hope we can see him soon.

Me: I don’t think he’s coming back.

Jaya: I want to go back to New Zealand, my school, my daddy, our house.

Me: If we went back to New Zealand, you wouldn’t go to school and we wouldn’t live in the house. We would have no money and we don’t know where your dad is.

Jaya: I don’t love my daddy. I love you.

Me: You can love both of us. It’s OK to love your daddy.

At 5.5…

Jaya: Know what, mommy? I love my daddy. He is in my heart always. I hope he lives with someone and he is safe.

Me: You, my love, have the kindest, most amazing heart I have ever known. I hope he is safe too. (She certainly taught me a thing or two in that moment).

When Demitri started asking about his daddy, Jaya first started into it with that mean, taunting playground voice, “I knew daddy.” Know that tone? The precursor to the teenage eye roll? I nipped that in the bud. “Ya know Jaya, Demitri doesn’t remember your dad. He didn’t get to know him like you did. He has no memory. You have a memory. You know where you came from. Demitri doesn’t and you need to remember that. Be kinder.”

I saw Jaya’s eyes shine with understanding. “Demitri, would you like to see pictures of daddy. He held you in his arms when you were baby. We have the same daddy. He’s our daddy.”

I watched Jaya sit down next to Demitri and show him photos of their dad, photos of their dad holding a baby Demitri in his arms, and photos of the three of them playing together. I looked at those photos and tried to see if something in his eyes indicated he was the type of man to abandon his children. I scanned every picture intent on finding a clue, a foreshadowing—something I missed, something in his expression that communicated very clearly, “I can’t stand being a father. I don’t want these kids in my life.” I found no clues.

As Jaya and I both explained to Demitri that his father was far away and in all likelihood never coming back, he looked up at me inspired by an idea, “Can you get me a new daddy?” as if a new daddy were as easy to come by as a new basketball.

Demitri doesn’t quite yet understand the immensity of his loss. How can he? He’s not quite sure what a daddy is yet. The daddies who play ball with their sons on the football field transfix him the most. To break the trance, I jump in with our own ball and channel the jock in me. I muster up all the testosterone I can to affect some male posturing. I study dads on the ball field and the playground. I normally study the tougher dads to be quite honest, the dudes. I look to them for my cues on how to father. I figure both my children have enough feminine empathetic energy in their lives. I posture tough, firm, and undaunting.

I show little emotion when my kids fall. I just call out, “You got this, kid. You can get up.” I beam with pride when they pick themselves up and keep on playing. I show little sympathy if their tears have no basis in physical or deep emotional pain. “If you are not in pain, don’t cry. It’s not OK. You choose your moments to cry carefully.” I smile triumphant when they quickly work through the tears and move on. I demand that they set firm boundaries with their friends. I love when I hear from teachers that Jaya walked away from a mean friend and Demitri stood his ground when his friends disobeyed the rules.

I’m scared to death that without a father, they will need to be twice as tough, twice as confident and twice as resilient. And then, I watch them move through the world and move through their feelings in relation to their dad’s absence and know my fears are most likely unfounded. While Jaya is a gentle willow, loving and kind, she embodies all that is grace, dignity, resolve, and forgiveness. And, Demitri, while still very young, stands his ground and knows what is not right for him.

Maybe I’m not doing it right or even well. If a parent book existed to explain the dynamics of abandonment, I most certainly wouldn’t open it. I’ve got my gut and my kids have their hearts.

Katerina Zacharia is a media executive, teacher, and sole parent raising two children on her own. She is passionate about her work in media, diversity, and education, her children, her friendships and family, and keeping her sanity. She has no nanny.

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