Daddy’s girl
My father wasn’t always the villain in my story. He used to be my hero, someone I looked up to. I remember the milkshake runs, the songs of his I memorized, the way I couldn’t wait to tell him about my day.
But over time, the bad memories started to outnumber the good. My perspective of him flipped.
Yes, I still remember the good moments. That’s what makes it harder. But one day, he flipped a switch, locking away the dad I once knew. What was left felt like an imposter. Who took my dad from me?
I stood at the top of the stairs, hearing the front door open. My chest tightened, not from excitement, but dread. I was only eleven, praying my friends wouldn’t hear the yelling. Wishing the bullets flying from his mouth wouldn’t hit me, ducking as they bounced off the walls.
My anger turned into silence.
I vividly recall how he’d open my bedroom door during his fights with my mom, deliberately waking me up. It was as if he wanted me to witness the chaos.
And yet, he was still my father. I was still a kid, holding onto hope that the dad I knew might return.
When we moved, I thought it might be a fresh start. The change I’d been praying for. I learned quickly peace didn’t exist in his world.
No, he never hit me. But the weight of his words? It felt like he had. They sliced like a knife.
The rage I felt was something I’d never known before.
How dare he.