My father

I hate the person who claims to love me…

Is it normal to hate the one who gave me life? The one who worked for me? It’s not that I don’t appreciate all their sacrifices, but every insult, every blow, every abuse they committed is engraved in my mind. I’ll never consider him a father, just someone who fed me. And yes, I’m grateful for that, but it doesn’t mean it’s the same.

I feel nostalgic for those years when he showed affection, to me and to my family. But then… he made my mother cry, broke her mind, mine, and the rest of my family’s. That’s something I’ll never forget, not even if he apologized, which I know he never will because of his narcissistic ego.

I hate that I resemble him. I hate that I share his despicable temper. I hate having to call him “dad.” I hate him. I wish I had never had someone like that as a parent.

You give me a seed and expect it to bloom overnight? You feed me and then demand payment with abuse? You crossed the line and still expect me to love you? That will never happen. You stopped being my dad a long time ago.

— Before dying, Laura hated her father...