I needed my friends after dad died – they just disappeared

‘I’ll have to come and see you soon,’ friends said when I told them Dad had died.

My father was my very best friend – everyone knew that, so I believed them when they said they’d be there to support me. 

But when months passed and my friends didn’t show up, I realised their words were meaningless. 

I’m not unreasonable: I know people have busy lives, and there might be reasons that you can’t be there. But what isn’t acceptable to me is promising someone you’ll be there and then flaking.

The people closest to me disappeared and left me feeling abandoned in the exact moment I needed them the most. To me, that is unforgivable. I can’t imagine ever letting them into my life again.

My dad understood me like nobody else did. He sensed when I was struggling with having borderline personality disorder and needed support, always appearing with a delicious treat at exactly the right moment.

He was diagnosed with cancer in September, 2025. He was 71 and I was 33, and as soon as we found out, I insisted I would be the one to care for him. 

Caring for him became almost a full-time job. My most important role was easing Dad’s pain with morphine, up to eight times a day. 

I felt terrible guilt when he suffered – so much so, I prayed God would take him as soon as possible. Sometimes all I could do was rub his back to ease the ache in his spine to comfort him.

But within weeks, I had no choice but to accept professional help, and he was admitted into a hospice in October.

Over the following days he fell into a coma. I sang You Are My Sunshine and played Masterchef on the flatscreen, describing the dishes we’d salivated over so many times before.

I lay at his side each night, reminding him of the loved ones waiting for him on the other side.

I promised I would be okay without him. Willing each breath to be his last, but also petrified of losing him.

It feels strange to say, but when he finally passed away, I was elated. 

It hadn’t even been six weeks since his initial diagnosis. To say I felt stunned would be an understatement. 

After his death, I couldn’t bear to see the world still spinning. Going outside felt almost impossible. I walked our dog, Maxie, under the cover of darkness, so that I wouldn’t see life go on without him.

Every night I lit a candle for Dad as I got into bed. I told him how I was feeling, asking him to keep looking out for me. 

That nightly catchup was the only thing I looked forward to.

Despite the fact my parents had been divorced for a decade, a parade of friends arrived at Mum’s house bearing cards, flowers and hugs. It was a given they’d attend the funeral. No one asked her if they should come, just ‘When and where?’

My own friends sent texts and crying emojis. ‘Will have to come and see you soon’ but it felt so insufficient in comparison to the support my mum received. 

I longed for action, not words. I needed them to check up on me consistently. 

There was so much they could have done: brought food, or asked if I needed help organising the funeral. But nothing like that was offered. It made me feel like my pain was inconvenient.

I posted Dad’s funeral arrangements on Facebook; some friends I told directly, hoping they’d visit.

Only my ex-boyfriend showed up unprompted. One close friend came, after I asked them to support me. The lack of familiar faces really stung.

A few days after Dad died, before the funeral, I asked one of my closest friends to visit. She promised she’d be there in a fortnight.

The day came and went, with no word from her. Nearly two weeks later I received a photo: a litter of puppies, for no reason whatsoever, followed by the words ‘Been thinking of you…’

I asked her why she hadn’t come to see me.

She said she had been ‘feeling a bit awkward about that’, and that the baby had been sick.

I felt like I had been drowning, and this was the tipping point. I stopped reading her responses, because no apology could repair this.

Three months passed and others continued messaging: ‘Been thinking of you, will have to visit soon.’

One friend invited me to their party. They’d stalled on visiting because they were ‘so busy’ with work, but clearly had time to plan a party. It was a gut punch.

A couple of friends did visit in the days after dad died. They weren’t the ones I thought would be there in a crisis. I’ll always be grateful to them.

As for everyone else, I wanted to shake everyone and yell, ‘My dad literally died.’

Following three months of putting up with empty promises, I finally told everyone how hurt I was. 

A few apologised profusely and asked if they could come ASAP, but I stopped responding. It was too late – I just wanted to be left alone.

I questioned whether I’d expected too much. They’d texted, after all, perhaps I was being ungrateful. But I’d supported grieving friends – made pasta bakes, travelled for funerals, even offered to hop on a plane to Munich. I felt like I’d given lots, only to get nothing in return when I needed it. 

I still have dark days, like my birthday, but now I’m focusing on new relationships. I began volunteering at my local food bank to kick my fear of leaving home. My colleagues and customers put a smile on my face, as does the gentle man I met on a dating app who takes me on hiking dates.

Grieving friends need your support, whether that’s because they’ve read the word ‘deceased’ on a bank statement, or brought their parent home in an urn.

You’ll likely say the wrong thing, but not showing up will always hurt more.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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