I never really had a dad, but I did have a father in my life.
I grew up in a house with a man that worked his 9-5, and left the rest to his wife.
He was a dictator, one whose temper wore thin,
I tiptoed in my own home because I was afraid of him.
My memory is jagged and faded, but I recall some things clearly.
I know there was anger and there was pain, and years that I spent fearing.
I was afraid for myself, though you had never actually hit me.
But your words and your hatred made you just as guilty.
I was afraid for my brother, who had been struck by your hands
Since the time he was three when he didn’t obey your every command.
I was terrified for my mother, as you threatened to take her life.
You threatened to take yours too, and there have been times that I wished you did that night.
But that’s not who I am, not how my mother raised me to be.
I recognised quickly that this feeling came from the hatred you taught me.
It took twenty years for her to finally leave.
But even so, we aren’t entirely free.
We still bare the scars from years of your violence,
Though the physical ones have healed, which makes it much easier for you to deny it.
You claim it never happened, that we fabricated it all.
Oh, but even if it did happen, it wasn’t a big deal, and was certainly not your fault.
You have never taken accountability for the things that you have done.
So I cannot forgive you, and neither can your son.
I am happier now, and I no longer feel afraid.
After twenty long years, my mother, brother, and I have made it out safe.