The Space Between Hate and Obligation To Love

Dear Gabrielle,

There was a time I craved his attention. I wanted his love. Even with all his failures, I still wanted him to see me. To acknowledge me. To say, “I love you.”

There was a time I judged my father and found him deserving of my forgiveness. I looked into his eyes and thought I saw weakness—not wickedness. A man crumbled under the weight of his own bad decisions, with no room left to maneuver. And I was willing to let bygones be bygones. To accept his abandonment, his rejection, his failures.

But that was before.

Before I found out why our family really collapsed.

Before I learned that my mother died carrying burdens she should never have had to carry.

Before I realized the true reason we were rejected, neglected, and left to suffer—was because my father didn’t find us worthy of his love, attention, or support. Not me. Not my siblings. Not my mother.

He gave it all to someone else. Another family. Another woman. Other children.

A few weeks ago, I found out that once upon a time, my then 15-year-old (give or take) brother was home because of unpaid school fees. And there was our father—uphill from our home—escorting a well-fed, well-dressed girl (his other daughter) back to boarding school. Meanwhile, we were counting coins for flour.

That moment shattered something I had long held together with trembling hands and too much hope.

It’s been almost two months since that truth settled in.

And now? Now we are expected to check up on him. To care for the man who didn’t care for us. Because the family he chose—his priority, his preference—are nowhere to be seen.

✦ It Didn’t Start with Grief

I used to think he abandoned us because our mother died. That maybe his grief hardened him, made him bitter, detached, distant. But now I see it clearly: the abandonment came first. Her death only gave him an excuse.

He was never really ours. He just wore the costume well while it suited him. He played the role until it no longer paid.

That realization stings in ways I can’t describe. It adds new layers to old grief. And yes, Gabrielle, maybe I shouldn’t be saying this to you. Maybe you should only know the edited version of your grandfather—sweet, elderly, misunderstood. But I don’t want you growing up thinking that people who harm you in silence deserve your protection.

✦ Trees and Their Apples

Sometimes I wonder if I’m becoming him.

I have used grief to fall apart—publicly, privately, poetically. I let it justify the years I mentally vanished. And in some ways, that grief allowed me to stop pretending I was okay. Just like him. A tragedy became a reason to disengage from life.

Trees and their apples, right? It’s laughable. Isn’t it?

Gabrielle, I’m telling you all of this because I’m angry. And I’m disappointed. But also, because I’m scared. Scared of how much of him I see in me.

Scared that one day, you might feel this way about me.

Scared that I might end up being your pedestal parent—someone you want to love, someone you want to forgive, but someone you can’t bring yourself to trust.

✦ Until I Can Speak Softer

I know I judge him harshly. Maybe because it’s easier to look at his mistakes than at my own. His sins are public. Mine stay hidden.

Someday, I’ll tell you why I think I hated my father and my mother—and why I fear I became both of them. But today is not that day. Today, it’s easier to stew in disappointment. To talk about his failures and not mine.

Blame protects me from the full weight of my own guilt.

Until I can speak softer, until I can see clearer, this is where I’ll leave it.

With love,
Always—