I love you, But I can never love a MAN like you.

Papa, I miss you.

We always said it was better this way better for mom.
I know that’s the wrong thing to say out loud, but… she was going to leave you.
And you wouldn’t have survived her leaving again.
So maybe this way felt easier.
Cleaner.
Final.

But I still ask, why didn’t you change, Papa?
Why didn’t you try?

Was being a “man” more important than being a father?
Than being kind? Than being safe?

Why did you hit Mom?
Why did you hit me? Didi?
Why did you hurt us with words we never deserved, with silences that screamed louder?

You abused us, Papa.
And I hate saying that,
but if I don’t say it, it’ll stay stuck in my throat forever.

And yet… I still wanted to tell Mom that I understand you.
not your abuse never your abuse.
I draw the line. I always will.
But I saw the loneliness in your eyes
when the three of us whispered and changed the subject the moment you walked into the room.

I saw you.
Your dreams.
Your sacrifices.
Your unloved childhood.
Your small, quiet pain that you masked with rage.

I love you, Papa.
But I’d never want a man like you.
And that truth…
breaks me.

I wanted to tell you I see you really, truly see you.
But how do I do that while standing in front of Mom, protecting her from you?
How do I hold both truths in one body?

I was nine, Papa.
I didn’t know better.
I don’t even remember my childhood properly just the yelling, the tears, the fear.
Everything else… faded.

Why wasn’t I your princess?
Or… was I?

Everyone told me you loved me the most.
Then how did you hit me?
Why didn’t I feel safe with you?
Why did I grow up flinching at your footsteps?

You always said:
“Study. That’s what matters.”
But you never let us learn to drive,
because that would ruin our character?

Papa…
I fought with you in our last conversation.
You were complaining about Mom again but you always did that.
I didn’t know that would be the last time we spoke.
Maybe I would’ve said,
"I love you, but I don’t like the person you are."
Maybe I would’ve said,
"I get you."
Or maybe… I would’ve just listened longer.

I miss you sometimes.
It creeps in between tasks and texts,
when someone says “dad” too casually.

People treat us differently now.
The world expects strength,
but you never taught me how to hold the weight of your memory.
I wish you’d taught me how to fight that battle.
The one where you carry both love and trauma in your chest.

Papa,
I hope you're at peace now.
I hope you're whole.
Wherever you are.