The Complex Relationship with My Father: Love, Control, and Letting Go

Today, while at work, I came across a client with the same initials and surname my dad once had. His signature was about 60% similar to my father’s, and for a moment, it hit me—I missed him so much.

My dad was a narcissist. There’s no doubt about that. He ruled the house with his strict “my way or no way” mindset. But deep down, I know I was his baby girl. I saw glimpses of his loving side, even if they were rare. He also broke a few traditional gender norms for me—something I know my sisters-in-law resented when they married into our family.

Breaking Gender Norms in a Traditional Household

One of the biggest departures from tradition was that I was raised as a non-vegetarian. In many Hindu families, especially from my parents’ region, girls could cook meat if they chose to, but they weren’t supposed to eat it. My mother took it a step further and refused to even cook it. Yet, I vaguely remember my sisters-in-law making chicken curry when I was a child—though they never ate it. But I did.

Another tradition I escaped was that girls were expected to handle all the housework and cooking while the boys did nothing. That rule never applied to me. I remember my dad often telling my mom or my sisters-in-law that I was too young to be in the kitchen. Even when I was older, it was just me and my parents at home, so no one expected me to do anything.

Of course, I cleaned up after myself, but unlike my sisters-in-law, who had to cook and clean for everyone, I only took care of my own needs. This difference in upbringing made them resent me. I endured over 25 years of their bullying, but that’s a story for another time—it’s all in my book.

A Father’s Control, Not Unconditional Love

With my dad, things were complicated. He didn’t exactly bully me, but he didn’t love me unconditionally either. As long as I followed his rules and behaved the way he wanted, life was peaceful. Since that was the only life I knew, I never realized how controlling he was until I got married.

Unlike my siblings, I had a “love marriage.” I chose my husband, Nitin—he wasn’t picked by my parents. The reason for this was simple: my dad had seen my sister’s disastrous marriage. To put it mildly, her husband was useless, and her in-laws were mentally abusive—perhaps even physically, though I can’t confirm that since I was a child when she married. I only know she had it tough. If it weren’t for her strong mindset, she might not have survived that marriage.

I had heard stories of my dad and one of my brothers being beaten up by my sister’s in-laws. I had also heard stories of her being bullied. Yet, 30 years later, she remains in that marriage, raising their now-adult daughter.

Because of her experience, my dad made a deal with me: I would find my own husband. He knew I was sensitive, and if I ended up in a marriage like my sister’s, I might not survive it. So, when I started receiving marriage proposals at 16, he always had an excuse—first, that I was too young and needed to focus on my studies, and later, that I was a British-born girl beyond his control. By the time I graduated from university, it was clear that I would choose my own partner.

Finding My Own Path to Love

The search for my ideal husband wasn’t easy. God knows how many men I met. But I knew what I wanted, and I remained hopeful. Eventually, I found him.

Nitin and I didn’t have a typical Bollywood-style romance. In fact, I really didn’t like him when we first met. He was a player, cocky, and not very down-to-earth. But something about me intrigued him, and he kept begging me to meet up for a meal.

For over a month, I refused. Then, as Valentine’s Day approached, the hopeless romantic in me didn’t want to be alone. So, I finally agreed to meet him a few days before February 14—just in case it turned out to be a disaster. I didn’t want a bad date to ruin my Valentine’s Day.

But the universe had other plans.

Fifteen minutes into our date, I knew—I was going to marry this man. There was something about the way Nitin spoke about his parents and sister that felt right. Yes, he was a playboy who partied and chased women every weekend. But deep down, he was a decent, family-oriented guy. And I swear, I fell for him right then and there.

Of course, I didn’t tell him that. But something clicked, and from that moment, we were inseparable. We got engaged eight months later and married two months after that.

Marriage and My Father’s Wrath

That’s when the trouble with my dad started.

As the only child still living at home, and with Nitin’s parents in India, we decided that Nitin would move in with my parents to help take care of them. Most parents of daughters would be thrilled—they’d keep their daughter close and gain a son to share responsibilities. But not my dad.

Even though I was legally part-owner of the house, I always called it my parents’ home out of respect. But once I was married, my priorities naturally shifted. I was still the dutiful daughter—I did all the grocery shopping and paid all the bills—but I also wanted to spend time with my husband. I wanted to go to the movies on weekends, have a meal out, and enjoy the marriage I had fought for.

My dad couldn’t handle it. He refused to share me with Nitin.

Nitin, despite his past as a “bad boy” in India, kept quiet and bit his tongue to maintain peace. He worked hard, contributed to the bills, cooked for my parents, and even took on two jobs when I fell ill and had to reduce my work hours. Yet, my dad never saw the good in him.

All he saw was a man who had “stolen” his daughter.

The breaking point came after a massive fight. I had a complete emotional breakdown—I was shaking, crying, and broken. That was when Nitin lost it. He packed a bag, gave my dad a piece of his mind, and we walked out.

I saw my dad one last time when a friend tried to help us reconcile. But even though Nitin and I were willing to forgive and forget, my dad wasn’t.

He passed away four months later while on holiday in India.

The Good Memories Still Remain

Despite how things ended, I still miss my dad.

Our best times were in India. As an NRI, he was a big deal, and having a British-born daughter made him even prouder. In India, I was his princess. I sat in the front seat of his 4×4, went with him to meet important people, and was showered with attention.

Looking back, even those moments weren’t entirely about me—they were about him maintaining his reputation. I was part of his image, the perfect, obedient Indian daughter raised by his rules.

But despite everything, he was still my father. And I still miss him—especially our road trips in India