I drive past the old house once in a blue moon.
Not because I miss it—
but because it reminds me where I learned to survive quietly.
You weren’t there when it mattered.
Not really.
You left us exposed, and somehow expected us to understand. I did—too well. I was old enough to know why you had to go, but young enough to feel abandoned anyway. That contradiction never stopped hurting.
You were my hero once.
Do you know how hard it is to bury a hero who is still alive?
I loved you before I learned who you really were.
I still love you, and that’s the cruelest part. Loving someone who never chose you first. Loving someone who demanded grace but never earned it. Loving someone who took and took and called it need.
You scared me.
Not with fists—but with unpredictability. With anger. With alcohol. With the sense that I had to be careful, even as your daughter. That kind of fear doesn’t leave marks. It just settles into the body and stays.
You say you love me. I believe you do.
But love without accountability is just another burden you handed me.
You leaned on me when you should have protected me.
You asked when you should have given.
You chose yourself—again and again—over your own blood.
I carry guilt that was never mine.
I carry weight I didn’t create.
I carry your failures because no one else would.
I resent you for that.
I wish my grandfather had been my father.
A man who stood firm. Who served something greater than himself. Who didn’t run when things became hard. Who didn’t mistake selfishness for freedom.
I don’t hate you.
But I no longer excuse you.
If forgiveness ever comes, it will be quiet.
It will not look like closeness.
It will not look like sacrifice.
It will look like boundaries you don’t get to cross.
I am your daughter.
But I am no longer your keeper.
I love you, Dad.
But it is not the love it once was.
And it never will be again.
Circa 1/13/2023