“I Love My Father, But God Knows I Can’t Like Him”
The Girls Whose Fathers Broke Their Hearts Before Any Boy Could.
He sits at the table reading his daily paper. Step by step, I approach him, engulfing him in my arms. I’m fulfilling my promise. For a second, I see some affection in his eyes. Makes my heart flutter. My father loves me. My father loves me. I love my father.
"Breath, Breathe, It’ll be over soon". He marches towards me, raising his hand to strike me. My mother steps in between, to which he attempts to push her. It hurts mom, it hurts. I offer my heart today. Stab it, and let the life drain out of me, I’ll welcome it this instant.
“Every child deserves a parent, but not every parent deserves a child”
Vinod Kapri
Children are innocent. The flowers in this garden don’t need to be questioned, nor should they move their lips to voice an explanation. Children are innocent. They shouldn’t have to rip their cages and prove they deserve love. Children are love.
I was a child too once. A broken one at that, but still, a living breathing child. Why did I have to beg on my knees and plead to God every day?
I’m also my father’s daughter. I’m the reason he’s working every day. He sweats, yet stays silent, taking the blows day and night without complaining to provide me with a better life. He works hard. Very hard. He’s a good father.
I also have another father. This father calls me names that are imprinted on my skull. This father says I’m a mistake. My mother’s mistake. I yearn for this father’s love, yet he doesn’t spare me an ounce of it. This father breaks my heart. Surely, he cannot be a good father?
'How can he be a good father? He's not good to my mother.'
Both my fathers keep me in a state of confusion. Should I hate both of you? Should I love both of you? How can I accept only one, when both of their blood flows through my veins?
You love me Dad, and I love you, but God knows that I can’t like you.
One day though, I swear this moon will have mercy and illuminate me with its incandescence. One day I will break this cycle. My children will never memorize their insults. Their breaths won’t tangle, nor will their hands shake. They won’t know how it feels to see their mother every day, knowing she deserves better. They won’t beg for better.
They won’t have to explain that a hand doesn’t need to be raised to inflict violence.
That violence is a river. It flows, it strikes and if it hits you long enough, it erodes. It breaks.
I won’t ever let my children break.
