Dear Dad,
They say every little girl
is supposed to know
what safety feels like
because her father
teaches her first.
Mine taught me
that love
could sound like shouting.
That footsteps
could make your stomach twist.
That home
could become something
you prayed to escape.
You always said
you never laid a hand on us.
But bruises
don’t learn to bloom
without being touched.
I remember
covering them
before school.
Learning that secrets
were easier to explain
than the truth.
I remember you—
a grown man—
lying on the living room floor,
kicking,
screaming,
crying with rage,
while the children
became the adults,
measuring our words,
holding our breath,
waiting for the storm
to pass.
You were supposed
to be the shelter.
Instead,
we learned
how to run.
Out the front door
in our underwear,
into the night,
toward neighbours,
friends,
any place
that felt safer
than home.
Mom gathered us
the best she could.
Other people
became our refuge.
Children shouldn’t know
which houses
will open their doors
at midnight.
But we did.
People say
childhood fades.
Trauma doesn’t.
It simply changes shape.
It hides inside loud voices.
Inside slammed doors.
Inside every apology
you’re still waiting to hear.
I’ve tried,
more than once,
to tell you
what those years did to me.
Every conversation
ended the same.
You defended yourself.
You corrected my memories.
You asked me
to think about
how hard it was
for you.
But I was the child.
I wasn’t born
to carry your guilt.
I wasn’t responsible
for protecting
your feelings
while mine
were still learning
how to survive.
You wanted understanding.
I wanted acknowledgment.
Just once—
“I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I should have protected you.”
Those words
never came.
Now I am the parent.
And every day,
my children teach me
what you never did.
That listening
isn’t weakness.
That apologies
don’t make you smaller.
That love
should never require fear.
If one day
my children tell me
I’ve hurt them,
I pray
I have the courage
to believe them.
I pray
I choose healing
over pride.
Because being their mother
isn’t about being perfect.
It’s about making sure
they never have to write
a poem like this.
I always wondered
what it would feel like
to be a daddy’s girl.
Instead,
I became
an estranged daughter,
learning that sometimes
breaking the cycle
is the closest thing
to being loved.
Love,
The little girl
who deserved
a father.
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