Personal Blog: R.I.P Darvo -15 years gone

Fifteen years.

That’s how long it’s been since my stepdad died... suddenly, violently, absurdly — falling after trying to get back into my mum’s apartment when they’d locked themselves out. 🕊️

What stays with me isn’t a neat good-or-bad version of him. It’s the contrast.

He could hurt without meaning to and then own it. He once mocked my baby cry. Small thing, big impact. What mattered was that he got it. He apologised properly. No excuses. No minimising. He understood that harm doesn’t require intent. That mattered to me. 🧠

He was generous. Five-star kitchens. Sharp suits. LV wallets, Chanel scarves, the newest consoles. Care, expressed through effort and pride. ✨

He was also a fierce advocate. I watched people visibly shake as this well-dressed man calmly dismantled them.

“You have to be fucking joking. Under the Act, you cannot do that. The Act is clear.” ⚖️

He understood systems. He understood power. And he wasn’t afraid to confront either.

But when stress hit, regulation could fail.

I was pregnant, working in an advertising firm. The woman behind my reception desk brought fish to work every day. The smell made me violently ill vomiting, shaking, overwhelmed. This wasn’t preference; it was pregnancy stress. I asked a doctor for a medical certificate so I could leave.

He refused.

This was the same doctor who had previously cut a cyst out of my stomach without anaesthetic. 🩺

When I told my stepdad, something snapped. He threatened to kill the doctor. He was then brutally arrested for it. 🚔

Afterwards, he felt even worse not just about what he’d said, but about what it became. He hadn’t protected me. He’d escalated it. Made it heavier, riskier, permanent. That sat with him.

Both things are true.

When he was done with a workplace, though, he didn’t linger.

“I’ve had a fucking enough of this shit,” he’d say and walk. 🚶‍♂️

Same day. Same city. Same calibre. Another top-tier place. No gap. No apology. He knew his value.

I followed that model for a while.

I studied business management. I ran three businesses. I raised two babies back-to-back through pregnancy and sleep deprivation. No pause. No safety net. My home was immaculate. My kids were engaged. Nothing lacking. 💪👶

Somewhere along the way, I forgot his way.

Instead of walking away from dysfunction, I stayed. I became rigid. I tried to control environments instead of leaving them. I confused endurance with strength.

And then there was Ben.

Honestly how much worse could it get. 🙃

A few months after my stepdad died, I dreamed about him.

In the dream, he told me Lotto numbers.

I woke up and wrote a few of them down. I didn’t buy a ticket.

Those numbers came up.

My kids’ dad was there when we checked. He was genuinely shocked. 🎱

About five years later, it happened again.

Another dream. Another set of numbers. This time I wrote down five of them. I actually checked them properly. My partner at the time was sitting with me when we looked them up — and again, the numbers came up.

One of them was the bonus ball.

I didn’t win much. Just enough to make it annoying. 😐

I don’t tell that story to sound mystical or special. I tell it because it fits him.

Always half right. Always pushing. Always just enough to make you think, for fuck’s sake, I should’ve trusted it. 😏

Now, when I hear his voice in my head, he’s laughing.

“Darling,” he says, smiling,
“the reason you aren’t where you want to be in life is because you haven’t put any effort into getting there.”

Not cruel. Not dismissive. A challenge.

And the irony isn’t lost on me.

I put in enormous effort just not always in the direction that served me.

He’d laugh at that too.

Then he’d ask,
“So... what are you going to do about it?” 🔥