The question I’m a man in my late 50s. My parents were teenagers when I was born. They married so I wouldn’t be illegitimate, it was the 1960s. My parents divorced. My mum and stepdad moved up north, my father remarried and stayed down south.
My father and his wife have three children, now in their 40s. My stepdad killed himself when I was in my early 20s, but I’ve come to realise he was much more of a parent to me than my actual father.
My relationship with my dad has always been difficult, because of the lack of any connection. He has never made time for me. He is an academic and supposedly a clever person but any discussions are always about how much he knows and how everyone else is wrong. I’m not a professional person, but I have been to university. I’m a self-employed cleaner. I feel he’s dismissive of what I do and know and really values intellectual stuff over anything else. I’m divorced and lead a simple life with my dog. My children have flown the nest and I’m proud of them both. My father has not shown much interest in them, and none since they were teenagers.
A couple of months ago when we last met, I was upset afterwards, because he doesn’t even try to talk to me. There’s a rupture between us that I don’t want to attempt to repair, because I’d be making myself vulnerable again. He’s the parent, but has never taken the initiative to ask me how I am.
My mother always says he does care for me and he’s just a grumpy, awkward sod, but I’m nearly 60 now; he’s never going to change. Why does this matter?
Philippa’s answer It’s deeply human to seek approval and recognition from a parent, even when we are fully grown. That longing is hardwired into us. As children, we see our parents as almost god-like figures, the source of safety, love and validation. What they think of us, how they treat us, shapes our sense of self-worth in ways we don’t fully realise. But parents, being ordinary flawed humans, don’t always recognise the power they hold. They don’t see themselves as the figures we saw them as in our earliest years, so they don’t necessarily understand how that early imprint persists in us, even into adulthood. Your mother, on some level, seems to recognise this. I think by her saying “he does care”, what she may really mean is, you are worthy of care.
That’s why, even though your logical mind knows he was just a very young man, briefly with your mother, then separated from you by distance and circumstances, you still feel the loss of the father he should have been. You know he’s your father and a part of you has always longed for him to step up and acknowledge that in a way that feels meaningful. The added pain of losing your stepfather to suicide only deepens that yearning, because not only did you lose the person who truly took on a fatherly role, but it probably left an unhealed gap, a sense of abandonment that makes the absence of your biological father even more pronounced.
When people on the outside look at situations like this, they might wonder, why keep chasing a relationship when the other person doesn’t seem interested? But for most of us, our parents’ approval, or lack of it, has the power to make us feel worthy or unworthy. When a parent is emotionally absent or dismissive, it doesn’t just feel like rejection, it feels like a fundamental statement about our value. That’s why the pain is real, it’s not just about wanting a relationship, it’s about wanting to feel as if we matter, like we are enough.
What’s important is recognising how this has shaped you psychologically. This longing isn’t just about your father, it’s about your own sense of worth and identity. The more you can see that, the more you can find other, healthier ways to fill that need. Ways that don’t leave you dependent on someone who has never shown up for you in the way you deserved. This doesn’t mean denying the pain or pretending you don’t care; it means shifting the focus from trying to fix that relationship to understanding what you need and finding it elsewhere.
We carry versions of ourselves from every age, especially the youngest. That two-year-old part of you who longed for his father is still there, still waiting to be seen and valued. But now, as an adult, it’s up to you to care for that child within, not your father, nor anyone else. You get to decide how you nurture yourself, how you seek connection and how you define your worth.
At 50 or 100, we are still shaped by our past, but we are not bound by it. You have the power to choose relationships that are nourishing and to let go of those that only cause you harm. If distancing yourself further from your father brings you peace, allow yourself that, too. Whatever choice you make, let it be one that affirms your value, not one that keeps you in a cycle of waiting for validation that may never come.
Every week Philippa Perry addresses a personal problem sent in by a reader.
If you would like advice from Philippa, please send your problem to askphilippa@guardian.co.uk. Submissions are subject to our terms and conditions.
