What do you do, when the one who was meant to protect you till his dying breath, tries to take the one who gave you life?

How does it affect you? When the most vivid memory of your little days, is when the big, strong man who you should have seen as a protector, you now see as the man who tried to throw your mums life away like it was nothing?

Like anger, alcohol, and a few choice words are okay to result in someone’s life hanging in danger, neck breaking distance off the ground.

You my dear, walk with a heart full of hate and a head full of confusion. I know you are a man who isn’t meant to talk about his feelings. I know you are a man who came from an environment where you had to grow up too soon and be a protector.

But how does your trauma, result in the 180? The 180 where love for them knew no bounds. Yet love for the one you married, and the one you created, was an inconvenience?

How did you face the mirror next day? Did it make you gasp? Did you feel at least a fraction of hatred for yourself, that I feel for you? Or did you not bare your dark circles and scruffy chin a second glance? Or let me guess, that day, you avoided your reflection?

Because you’re the initiator of confrontation with the weak. Yet you clearly haven’t confronted the biggest demon in the room. Your inner child.

I’m sure your trauma would provide an array of excuses for the counsellor or the fake friends that are willing to listen to you. I on the other hand, know everything there is to know about a man like you.

Did it hurt? Did it hurt when I looked you dead in the eyes and pushed you off her? When I wished I had the backbone to say what my eyes were saying. That I wish you were dead. No, I didn’t wish for you to leave, but I also didn’t wish you the real death. Because that would cause stress. That would cause you receiving grace and forgiveness you didn’t deserve. I wished for you a quiet exit. Where I could be a happy child, and pretend I never had a dad. Like I do now. Saying I have a father is acknowledging your existence. You my dear, do not deserve such a grand title.

Do you remember the day you made me soup? In the 11 years, that’s one and only meal I’ve seen you cook. And let’s be honest, if my senses weren’t diluted by the fake glimmer of love at that moment in time, I probably would have thought it tastes as bitter as your soul. But really, how sad is it, that you only ever once showed up for your role as a carer and a provider. And that’s only because Nan wasn’t home.

Would you have really loved me more if I was born a boy? That’s the rumour that still leaves me flabbergasted to this day. To hear the gossip and the whispers that you didn’t pick up what should have been your little bundle of joy, just because I was a girl? If that is the case, dammmm…. You’ve got more issues than North Korea.

Oh how I loved seeing the joy in your eyes when you finally did get your male bundle of joy. And oh how it left me fake happy. When you were laughing and playing with him, at least I got to hear your laughter. It had never been aimed at me before. So as a little 7 year old, desperate for daddy’s love, I was willing to close my eyes and pretend the deep chuckle that came out of your chest had at least a pea size amount of me on your mind at the time.

It is sad. All the love you missed out on. I had so much to give. Even as I grew older, before all I could see was black as far as you were concerned, I was willing – no – desperate, for you to pick me for a moment.

And my 17th? Oh god how grown up I looked in that dress. I picked it just for our daddy daughter date. Too bad you were big on empty promises. I never wore that dress. How could I? When that day, I decided, I can cope without you.

You don’t deserve too many of my words. But I deserve the peace and quiet it brings. Letting the paper know, just how it feels. How the one who was meant to protect you, chose to never love you instead.

Your, what could have been, and should have been, loving daughter.