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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.Â
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He was a dictator, one whose temper wore thin,Â
I tiptoed in my own home because I was afraid of him.Â
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My memory is jagged and faded, but I recall some things clearly.Â
I know there was anger and there was pain, and years that I spent fearing.Â
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I was afraid for myself, though you had never actually hit me.Â
But your words and your hatred made you just as guilty.Â
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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.Â
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I was terrified for my mother, as you threatened to take her life.Â
You threatened to take yours too, and there have been times that I wished you did that night.Â
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But that’s not who I am, not how my mother raised me to be.Â
I recognised quickly that this feeling came from the hatred you taught me.Â
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It took twenty years for her to finally leave.Â
But even so, we aren’t entirely free.Â
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We still bare the scars from years of your violence,Â
Though the physical ones have healed, which makes it much easier for you to deny it.Â
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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.Â
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You have never taken accountability for the things that you have done.Â
So I cannot forgive you, and neither can your son.Â
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I am happier now, and I no longer feel afraid.
After twenty long years, my mother, brother, and I have made it out safe.Â