Please help with this story I wrote! Can anyone help me put more emotion into the narrator?

Father Unforgotten
I was 12 years old when my father disappeared and never returned. The house, once my father’s pride and joy, crumbled and creaked, as dust settled thickly on the bookcases and cabinets. My mother, wild with grief, grew unpredictable and distempered. My father, who had always loved me, would have cared for me until the end of the world, but my mother, who knew nothing about children, neglected me. I became thin, tired and tortured by my mother’s misery. I was confined to my room – the rest of the house was exhausted by my mother’s grieving – and I was only allowed out of the house to buy milk and bread.
The once beautiful garden was now overgrown, and all traces of the sweetpeas and pansies that had grown there before had now been overtaken by nettles and dandelions. The walls that had surrounded the gardens had long since crumbled away, leaving a nest of rocks and bindweed. The paths, that had once twisted and wound through the gardens, were homes to ants and beetles, who found the gravelled mud a perfect protection for their families.
The ancient, studded door that had once towered over me, standing proud and tall, was cracked and rotten. Once polished banisters were now worn from the passage of many hands that had passed across its smooth surface and sprinkled with dust. The kitchen was disused; the ashes from the fire years ago spread across the hearth. Pots and pans hung still and rusty, the blackened undersides of them mingled with an iron red. The whole house was neglected; draughts blew through the empty rooms day and night through the cracks in the windows and doors.

It was a bleak day. I looked out of the window; the chill of the morning seemed to lie upon my very soul. I gazed around the colourful walls of my room, decorated by my father and myself. Birds, horses and flowers floated round the outer limits of my room, whispering their sympathy into my ears. I sighed. The paintings were fading, like my memories of my father. Perching on the edge of my desk, my lips formed the last words I remember spoken to me by my father. ‘There’s a reason for everything. Don’t let yourself go.’ A solitary tear dropped onto my dry lips. My tongue brushed it away, leaving the skin wet behind it. I blinked to rid my eyes of the moisture threatening to overflow; this was no time for grieving.
*
The light reflected small particles of dust that dispersed into the air as my bare feet stepped over them. The floor creaked where I stood, as if awaiting my next move. The grimed window panes rattled as I reached forward and took hold of the wooden banisters. I made my way slowly downstairs, stepping carefully over gaps in the rotting woodwork. The petticoats of my dress rustled against my legs with each step. The cold, wooden floors made my feet freeze, numbing my toes of pain. My hair slipped forwards and into my face, strands hooking themselves round my nose and mouth. My bare forearms were streaked with filth, and my hands with dust as I slid my palms down the banisters.
I stepped onto the floor below. I could hear the floor groaning as it held my weight. The draught slammed the door shut, muffling the grieving sobs of my mother. I tiptoed silently to the door, praying that my mother would not become aggravated. I pushed the door open a crack. On Father’s old chair, dusty and rotten, sat his cushion; a velvet, deep red cushion that held all of Father’s magic and secrets. Although it was old and tired, it still glowed with the magic of my father’s presence. Opposite, my mother sat, crying into a lace silk handkerchief. Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the rug below. Her feet were also bare, settled onto the worn rug. Swallowing my nervousness, I stepped into view. My mother looked up, startled, a look of hope etched onto her worn out face. Her hope vanished as she realised it was me.
“Mother?” I whispered. She looked up again, tears still creeping from her eyes. Mother stared at me, her eyes widening.
“Where has Father gone?”
“My child,” she whispered. “He has gone away with the fairies, my child.” Her voice cracked and renewed tears ran down her face.

He has gone away with the fairies.
*
I stood in the garden, watching the grey clouds draw closer and closer to our crumbling abode. I faced the sky as the first few drops of rain pattered down onto my face. I took one step towards the garden gate. Spots of rain darkened my path towards the street. Birds flew around the garden, their wings spread as I watched their shadows pass over the house. The breeze lifted the hem of my dress and my bare feet froze to the path. The distant sound of my mother, crying her sins to the world, moaning her grief to the wind touched my ears as the silence closed in on me. I walked over to the gateway that led to the streets. Grey buildings stretched endlessly into the gloom before me. Where would my father be? He could be anywhere. I walked fearfully across the dirt road, as if at any moment, someo
someone – or something – would jump out at me.
My feet made little noise as I made my way to the inn. Opening the door, I looked into the dim room. Tables and chairs stood still, gathering dust that dispersed rapidly as I padded softly over to them. He was not here. Turning back towards the door, shoulders slumped, I left.
What felt like hours passed. I stumbled around, calling, crying, begging for my father to return. I sat upon a stone step, looking at the dry mud soaking up the rain like cotton cloth drawn under water by the dolly stick. I got to my feet and turned to go home. I traced my footsteps back to the garden, where I paused. Looking back, sighing, I pushed at the unsteady gate. Wandering up the path, I made my way towards the door. As I did so, I spotted a flower; one tiny white snowdrop, resting in a haze of green. My heart thumping, I realised home was the place where my father would be. I was sure of it.
Racing through the house, my mind searched for the place where
where Father would be hidden. Then I found it: Father’s study. I slowed to a walk. Just outside the mahogany door, I paused. Then I pushed the door gently. It slid silently open to reveal father’s study. His desk, nestled comfortably in the fibres of the red carpet, shone, giving off an ethereal glow, as if the light from other worlds was upon it. My eyes searched the room for my father. Then I espied it: one single piece of parchment, ink spots fading into the aged paper. Slowly, my hand shaking, I picked the letter up. My heart shuddering fearfully, I began to read.

My Dearest Child,
I am sorry to leave you so soon. Please look after you mother. Do not grieve for me. You will see me again one day. I promise. There’s a reason for everything. Even my death. Don’t let yourself go. It was surely not meant to be this way.
I am truly sorry for…
There was no ending. My mind was blank, like a mist had just descended on my thoughts. My father. Dead.
I turned around again, facing the door
. Still shaking, clutching the letter to my heart, I stepped out of the doorway. For the first time I noticed that the window at the end of the hallway was open. On the ledge lay a single snowdrop. Walking to the window, I picked up the flower. A sudden movement from behind me made me turn round. My hand tight around the delicate stem of the plant, I looked up. My mother stood in the doorway.
“From the fairies, my child.” She said.

And then we both smiled.

The End

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