For My Dad

When I was little,

I watched you like a storm I couldn’t predict.

I loved you,

but I was scared of you too—

the tone in your voice,

the weight of your silence,

the way the room changed when you walked in.

I thought love meant waiting to be noticed,

trying to be small,

trying to be good enough

for the version of you

that didn’t always show up.

As I got older,

the fear turned into anger

because being scared of you hurt less

than still wanting you to see me.

I said I hated you,

but I didn’t—

I just didn’t know how to love someone

who felt a million miles away

even when you were right in front of me.

And Mom always said

we fought so much

because we’re just alike—

same fire, same walls,

same stubborn need to win the argument

instead of admit we were hurt.

We lost years to misunderstanding.

To pride.

To wounds neither of us had the words to name.

But time has a strange way

of softening the edges we once bled on.

Somewhere between growing up

and growing tired of carrying old ghosts,

I learned the truth:

you weren’t the villain,

you were a broken man trying to love

in a world that never taught you how.

And now—

now we talk.

Now we laugh.

Now I can sit beside you

without bracing for impact.

And I’m grateful—

not because the past didn’t hurt,

but because we didn’t let it win.

I don’t love you because you were perfect.

I love you because we both changed.

Because we both stayed long enough

to learn each other again.

Because I finally get to say this

without fear, without anger, without a knot in my chest:

I’m glad you’re still here.

And I’m glad I am too.