Fatherwound

He was a shadow pretending to be a man, a storm masquerading as shelter.

He taught me anger before I learned love, hatred before I knew trust.

His fists found my mother’s face, his voice a blade slicing through the air, splitting us into fractured pieces of a home that was never safe to begin with.

He cheated on vows as easily as he cursed his name, disrespecting the women who loved him, the workers who served him, the children who bore his legacy.

And when the weight of his chaos grew too heavy, he left me in the arms of a monster to build a new life, untouched by the wreckage he left behind.

Years later, I stood before him, a ghost of the child he abandoned. His eyes didn’t know me, until recognition flickered like a dying match.

He hugged me then, a hollow gesture from hollow arms, still incapable of shielding me from the venom of his new love.

He was never a father — not in the way a child needs one. He was a destroyer, a liar, a man who abused the softest things and left them hardened.

And yet, some cruel part of my heart still folds for him. A tender wound, aching for something he can never give.

Perhaps it’s the child in me, still standing in the rubble, waiting for the storm to clear, still hoping the shadow will take my hand and become a man.

— Lux