Kelly Farndale, 42, Newcastle-upon-Tyne
Rolling along the pavement on my skates, I laughed.
My dad Mark followed behind.
‘You’re doing great!’ he beamed.
Wobbly as I was, I felt confident, zooming along.
Dad will catch me if I fall, I thought.
It was 1985 and I was 3.
Dad, then 21, was my hero, I felt safe in his arms.
But our happy family didn’t last long.
That year, Dad moved out.
I stayed with my mum Gill, then 19.
She was incredible but I missed Dad.
I rarely saw him.
‘I’ll take you to feed the ducks,’ he promised on the phone when I was 5.
But he never turned up.
‘Is it my fault he didn’t come?’ I asked Mum.
‘Of course not,’ she said.
I’d see Dad…
