I think I’ve always found it easier to pretend you never existed,
Like a side character in a story I barely remember,
Convincing myself that if you were never real,
Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

I understand—you left when I was a child.
I understand—you and my mother were never meant to last.
But who gave you the right to decide
That leaving meant forgetting?

Maybe I was never important enough,
Just another name lost in the shadow of your other daughters.
But tell me, was it my fault?
Was I the reason you walked away?

I hate that I don’t know you at all,
Not your birthday, not your voice, not even your favorite color.
A father—someone meant to stand behind his daughter,
A backbone, a shelter
But I had none of that.
I lacked that.

And now, all I have is the echo of your absence,
An empty space where love should have been,
A stranger I was supposed to call father.