I know deep in my heart that I can never forgive him because of what he did to the dearest person in my life—the person who gave life to me and gave up her dreams so that I could live and have the things she could never have. And I feel, and I keep on feeling. I feel that this will never go away—knowing he walks on the same earth as me, breathes the same air as me; knowing he is my father. Knowing how much it would hurt me to do everything that he did to my mother. Knowing that maybe I’ll never look at the new man in my mother’s life and feel trust, and that maybe I’ll never be able to forget about him for a split second and have a fresh moment without feeling him consume my thoughts—without the guilt of crying.
Crying because of him itself feels like an embarrassment. Every single tear shed for him, every scream that has come out, every piece of anger, every piece of regret—is him. Everywhere I go, everything I look at, everything I feel is him, and that is a very painful knot to be in. Whenever I find myself trying to untie that knot and throw it away, I always seem to mess it up and, by mistake—such a simple and deep mistake—every time I leave a deeper feeling of regret: a need to have a father’s protection.
How I hate myself for wishing and even thinking that I could be deserving of him carrying me again on his shoulders—just me and him. Driving around in his car aimlessly. Going to the movies on a random Tuesday without even knowing anything about it, but being unimaginably happy and excited to spend a few hours with your dad. And I hate myself for knowing I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything.
Was I supposed to know about divorce, about drugs, about alcohol, about a mother struggling to buy herself something to drink and having to collect coins because all of the money was spent on drugs, alcohol, gambling, and prostitutes? Was I supposed to know that no one except my grandma came when I was born because my father was too busy snorting lines and buying alcohol with his friends? Did it really have to be like that? Did he have to pack my mother’s wedding dress and throw it on the ground while everyone was watching?
I hope the power he had over my mother in that moment, and for the time they shared a place to live, was truly worth losing your only child’s love forever—losing what you swore to never hurt, losing what you swore was your little baby.
How I feel guilty whenever I look in the mirror and see the resemblance of you on me, in me too. I act like what I hate and what hurt me the most. And if you call me your daughter, will you forgive me if I inquire?
But regardless of everything you’ve done wrong in everyone’s life—regardless of the pain you’ve caused my mother especially, my family, and me—I’m so very thankful because I’ve learned. Now I know how you’re not supposed to treat the people you love. But still, I’m scared. I’m scared that whenever I let someone love me, they will see a piece of you and leave without a word, like you did. Still, can I blame them?
Will I be able to defend myself and prove that I’m nothing like the monster you are, and the only thing I share with you is physical? Will I even have the courage to try and prove that I am worthy of love and gentleness when you’ve never even tried to listen, nonetheless try to understand your daughter’s struggles and pain? Is it a crime that I’ve learned from you that love should be rough, untrue, and scary?
Will I betray myself if I find a tiny piece in me that wants to forgive what you’ve done? Parents shape us, so rejecting you feels like rejecting where I came from and who I am. Because of you, I have to remind myself that I’m allowed to be angry, disappointed, hurt, and distant.
If I am to ever forgive you, I know I wouldn’t be betraying myself—it would be that I don’t want this to keep living in me. I will allow myself to forgive and still say, ‘You don’t get access to me.’ If I ever forgive you, it won’t mean I owe you anything; it just means I’m human, and it’s finally time to untie myself from that painful knot that you tied me in since I was born.
If it ever shows up to me, I’ll examine it slowly. I won’t let it override my boundaries. Because forgiving you would cost all of me.
I love you.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 12:46 AM UTC
I know deep in my heart that I can never forgive him because of what he did to the dearest person in my life—the person who gave life to me and gave up her dreams so that I could live and have the things she could never have. And I feel, and I keep on feeling. I feel that this will never go away—knowing he walks on the same earth as me, breathes the same air as me; knowing he is my father. Knowing how much it would hurt me to do everything that he did to my mother. Knowing that maybe I’ll never look at the new man in my mother’s life and feel trust, and that maybe I’ll never be able to forget about him for a split second and have a fresh moment without feeling him consume my thoughts—without the guilt of crying.
Crying because of him itself feels like an embarrassment. Every single tear shed for him, every scream that has come out, every piece of anger, every piece of regret—is him. Everywhere I go, everything I look at, everything I feel is him, and that is a very painful knot to be in. Whenever I find myself trying to untie that knot and throw it away, I always seem to mess it up and, by mistake—such a simple and deep mistake—every time I leave a deeper feeling of regret: a need to have a father’s protection.
How I hate myself for wishing and even thinking that I could be deserving of him carrying me again on his shoulders—just me and him. Driving around in his car aimlessly. Going to the movies on a random Tuesday without even knowing anything about it, but being unimaginably happy and excited to spend a few hours with your dad. And I hate myself for knowing I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything.
Was I supposed to know about divorce, about drugs, about alcohol, about a mother struggling to buy herself something to drink and having to collect coins because all of the money was spent on drugs, alcohol, gambling, and prostitutes? Was I supposed to know that no one except my grandma came when I was born because my father was too busy snorting lines and buying alcohol with his friends? Did it really have to be like that? Did he have to pack my mother’s wedding dress and throw it on the ground while everyone was watching?
I hope the power he had over my mother in that moment, and for the time they shared a place to live, was truly worth losing your only child’s love forever—losing what you swore to never hurt, losing what you swore was your little baby.
How I feel guilty whenever I look in the mirror and see the resemblance of you on me, in me too. I act like what I hate and what hurt me the most. And if you call me your daughter, will you forgive me if I inquire?
But regardless of everything you’ve done wrong in everyone’s life—regardless of the pain you’ve caused my mother especially, my family, and me—I’m so very thankful because I’ve learned. Now I know how you’re not supposed to treat the people you love. But still, I’m scared. I’m scared that whenever I let someone love me, they will see a piece of you and leave without a word, like you did. Still, can I blame them?
Will I be able to defend myself and prove that I’m nothing like the monster you are, and the only thing I share with you is physical? Will I even have the courage to try and prove that I am worthy of love and gentleness when you’ve never even tried to listen, nonetheless try to understand your daughter’s struggles and pain? Is it a crime that I’ve learned from you that love should be rough, untrue, and scary?
Will I betray myself if I find a tiny piece in me that wants to forgive what you’ve done? Parents shape us, so rejecting you feels like rejecting where I came from and who I am. Because of you, I have to remind myself that I’m allowed to be angry, disappointed, hurt, and distant.
If I am to ever forgive you, I know I wouldn’t be betraying myself—it would be that I don’t want this to keep living in me. I will allow myself to forgive and still say, ‘You don’t get access to me.’ If I ever forgive you, it won’t mean I owe you anything; it just means I’m human, and it’s finally time to untie myself from that painful knot that you tied me in since I was born.
If it ever shows up to me, I’ll examine it slowly. I won’t let it override my boundaries. Because forgiving you would cost all of me.
I love you.