The Childhood I Never Had

They say a father is a daughter’s first home,

a place where she returns after a long day,

with stories resting on her tongue

and dreams shining in her eyes.

But what if home never felt like home?

I watch other children speak of their fathers

with smiles so bright,

as if the world would end

if they spent a day apart.

And I wonder,

what does that feel like?

Because my definition of family

was never a father holding my hand.

It was my mother,

my siblings,

and the pieces of ourselves

we gathered after every storm.

You were there,

yet somehow absent.

Your words built walls

where love should have lived.

People think pain only leaves bruises,

but some wounds are invisible.

Some are hidden in sleepless nights,

in trembling breaths,

in a childhood stolen by shouting,

fighting,

and the fear of what tomorrow might bring.

I was only a child.

I never asked for toys,

or grand adventures,

or the world.

I only asked for peace.

A house without screaming.

A day without tears.

A moment where I could breathe

without carrying the weight of everyone else’s battles.

Sometimes you call me your princess,

and everyone smiles.

But they do not hear

the silent scream inside my chest.

Because a princess should feel safe,

and all I ever felt

was lost.

I wanted to come home

and tell my father everything.

How my day went.

What made me laugh.

What made me cry.

But some wishes remain wishes.

Now when I see fathers and daughters

laughing together,

going on trips,

creating memories,

I do not feel jealousy.

I feel grief.

Grief for the childhood I deserved.

Grief for the father I needed.

Grief for the home I searched for

but never found.

Maybe everyone has different experiences.

This one is mine.

A story of loving someone

because he is your father,

and hurting because he is.

A story of a child

who carried too much for too long.

A story of surviving

when all she ever wanted

was peace.