#writingmytruth
He wasn’t always this way—
or maybe I just didn’t see it,
too young to name the weight
pressing against the walls of our home.
Back then, he was just “Baba,”
a voice in the background,
sometimes laughing,
sometimes silent for days.
But as I grew,
so did the silence—
thicker, colder, sharper.
He left for work,
and in those days of distance,
I found peace.
Space to breathe.
Space to become.
Then he'd return—
and so would the tension.
The words unspoken
screamed louder than any argument.
His ego walked ahead of him,
tall, loud, always right.
My thoughts, my voice—
they bent around him,
folding like paper birds
never allowed to fly.
And still, I tried.
Tried to understand.
Tried to not hate.
Tried to be the daughter
he could see without judgment in his eyes.
But love shouldn't feel
like walking on glass.
And respect shouldn’t mean
shrinking into silence.
Now, I live in halves—
half in freedom, when he’s gone,
half in chains, when he’s here.
Not a child anymore,
but still hurting like one.
And yet,
I rise quietly each day,
holding my own hand,
writing poems in the dark—
because if he won’t see me,
I’ll make sure I see myself.
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 6:54 AM UTC