What He Never Gave Me

The other day I spoke to my father,

and our conversation felt like scraping open an old bruise—

one he put there,

one he pretends not to see.

We haven’t been in a good place,

but the truth is,

there was never a good place for us to stand.

He built our relationship on quicksand,

then blamed me for sinking.

I know he only tries with me

because I’m his blood,

not because he ever chose me.

There’s no warmth in his effort—

just duty,

just obligation,

just the bare minimum

wrapped in a fake smile.

He loves my brother openly,

carefully,

easily.

But with me?

His love is a locked door

he never once tried to open.

Even as a child,

I felt the difference

felt him pour into the son

and leave me thirsty.

And what hurts the most

is knowing the world treats me the same.

Being a Black woman means

I’m expected to be strong enough

to survive anything

even the absence of my own father’s love.

It’s like everyone decided

my pain was built-in,

a default setting,

and I should just swallow it.

The women in my family raised the men

like they were kings,

and raised me

like I should be grateful

just to stand beside a throne

I’d never be allowed to sit on.

He gaslit me with sweet lies

called me his favorite child

then treated me like a burden.

Told me “I love you”

with a hollow voice

that never matched his actions.

I grew up learning

that a father’s words

don’t mean a damn thing

when his silence is louder.

I am angry

because he expects forgiveness

for wounds he keeps reopening.

I am angry

because he hides behind excuses,

behind pride,

behind the image he protects

more than his daughter.

I am angry

because I deserved better

and he knew it.

He just didn’t care enough

to give it.

And yet he wants respect.

He wants grace.

He wants a version of me

he never helped build.

But all I have left for him

is the truth:

His lack of love

was the first heartbreak I ever knew,

and the only one

I never fully healed from.

Maybe one day I’ll forgive him

but today,

I let myself feel the rage

he taught me to swallow.

Today,

I stop pretending

that his absence disguised as presence

was ever enough.