“A Letter To My Dad, Who Fought To Raise Me” 

A sponsored partnership with MUBI

The relationship between a father and daughter can be difficult to define – some are beautiful, others complex and most are constantly evolving. Andrea Arnold’s new film Bird – now available to stream on MUBI – explores this very dynamic, following the story of 12-year-old Bailey and her father Bug as she looks for a life beyond the one she’s been given.

While there are many differences between Bailey’s childhood and that of writer Natalie Edwards, what ties them together is an unbreakable bond with their father. Here, in a heartfelt letter, Natalie reflects on her special relationship with her late dad...

Dear Dad,

My first memory is holding your hand as we walk slowly along the River Thames, carrying a bunch of wildflowers in my other tiny hand. I look up to see your trademark smile; a kind, reassuring grin that lights up your twinkly eyes. You were always so dapperly dressed, never leaving the house without a shirt, tie and a pair of Oxford leather shoes. That afternoon, I hug your pleated trouser leg as you patiently teach me another new word – our favourite game.

My childhood is packed full of blissful ‘just us’ moments like this. But then there’s that early memory of us in the car, where an intrusive thought slams my mind: “What happens when dad is no longer here?” I’ll never forget how the tears stung my eyes as I turned my face away, unable to share that crushing question – my worst fear – with you.

For reasons I will never understand, I never had a close relationship with mum, so you, in turn, became my primary carer. The one I would run to for cuddles, games – I loved sitting on your lap as you pretended to be a steam train – or whenever I needed something. You were the one who dropped me off and picked me up from school, took my friends and I on day trips and went clothes shopping with me.

Once that little chipmunk-cheeked child transformed into an awkward, insecure hormone-fuelled teenager, your eyes seemed less twinkly, and more dejected. We went through an awful lot together during those years, didn’t we? A painful and costly divorce when I was 11 led to countless hours (and years) spent arguing on my behalf in family courtrooms, and too many trips in and out of social services.

All I ever wanted was to live full-time with you, but we never knew what an undertaking that would be. Do you remember when it appeared to them ‘odd’ for a pre-teenage girl to want to live solely with her dad? What could you possibly know about periods, growing pains, boyfriends, make-up, the back catalogue of the Spice Girls and my classmate Jason, who I constantly obsessed over? Turns out, a lot. You gave me unconditional love, a sense of safety and stability – and you always showed up.

As you know, it took me ringing Childline when I was 12 to finally be listened to, which meant taking mum to court to overturn the ruling of me living for two weeks at a time with each of you. That resulted in a case at the Royal Courts of Justice, with my own solicitor and barrister helping to fight our cause. Dressed in an oversized suit from a charity shop, I nervously gripped your hand as we walked across the famous zebra crossing outside the courts, not fully comprehending the enormity of the situation I’d put in motion for us. But that night, after the judge ruled that I could live with you full-time and see mum once a month, I got to go home with you.

It’s no wonder, then, that my mood swings and angst later pained you. I wonder whether you thought, between the huffing and eye rolls, whether it was all worth it. But still, you remained my rock – and my best friend. That one constant in my life throughout the teenage turmoil. And despite me dodging many school days because I was bullied, you helped navigate me on a path that saw me attend college and university, and encouraged me to seek work experience opportunities, which all led to me building my dream career in the media world.

Over the years, as I settled more into adulthood, our riverside walks by the river sadly became less frequent. Your health began to read like a long list of horrors: a triple-heart bypass, bladder cancer, blood clots on the lungs, sepsis, blocked arteries. With each diagnosis, I feared I was going to lose you, and each time I would move home to look after you – our roles now reversed.

You were left with mobility issues but remained too proud to use a walker, so we would cling on to each other instead. Then, one hospital appointment in 2019, we were told the words I could never be prepared for: your cancer had returned. Every syllable a devastating blow. This time, there would be no radiology treatment. It was too late. And you never became strong enough for palliative chemotherapy. When you went to the toilet, I rushed back to hear the information you refused to learn. “How long?” I breathlessly asked the consultant? “Six months, if lucky,” was the haunting response left ringing in my ears.

Suddenly, the fear I had held deep down in my heart since that early memory of us in the car seared through my body like a hot poker. Yes, I had known this moment would come – at 80 you were an older dad – but for me, this always had its benefits. I gained your time and cultural references that left many of my friends clueless. I would be the only eight-year-old sat in the audience watching the Glenn Miller big band orchestra. The one who knew all the words to Celine Dion’s Falling Into You album, and the one who had watched countless episodes of Dad’s Army on repeat.

I was always fascinated to hear stories of when you were a young child during World War II. You’d share the dread of doodlebug bombs, or your older siblings being sent away from London as evacuees. I still get emotional thinking about the time you remembered your primary school teacher telling you and your classmates to pray as you sat trembling in an air raid shelter. And you were raised by a single mum, after your dad tragically passed away in an accident when you were just eight.

But leaving that life-shattering appointment, I was forced to face the pitfalls of our limited years together. The floor beneath me spiralling; darkness, panic and longing, overriding my emotions; and the stark realisation that you, my superhero, were human after all.

Over the next four months, I saw you every day in hospital and secretly recorded some of our conversations to preserve stories that I had taken for granted. My last memory of you is holding your hand in those final breaths in the hospice, giving you, the person who was my whole world, permission to leave. I tried to tell you just how much you meant to me, and how grateful I was for everything. You departed shortly after I read you a letter explaining just how special you are.

Then, the curtain came down on our double act.

It’s now been over five years since we last saw each other. And just like in your final moments, nothing I write about you feels worthy enough. No amount of words can convey our bond – we truly were two peas in a pod – or what you did by helping to fight for me all those years ago, but I want you to know how thankful I am.

I often think of that vintage fridge magnet you would always straighten, which read: ‘Anyone can be a dad. But it takes someone special to be a daddy’. You were the type of Daddy who, when I was 11, painted my nails and helped me with the questions ahead of that interview I won in a competition with boyband 911. You gave me so much, too: my love for history, Strictly Come Dancing, musical theatre, antiques and bargain hunting, but you also instilled my sense of inner strength, opened my eyes to feminist beliefs and passed on your inherent zest for life.

Ultimately, you allowed me to just be me, and your arms were always wide open for when I messed up – like the time I forgot to apply for university accommodation and was nearly left (sort of) homeless.

Today, I try to make you proud and honour your memory every day. Remember when I used to groan when you cracked another bad joke, and you would say, “You’ll miss this when I’m gone.” How true those words were.

Until we one day meet again, Pappa E, thank you for everything.

I love you.

Natalie x 

Service95 has partnered with MUBI to offer readers 60 days of great cinema, for free. Start with Bird – available to stream on MUBI now