He’s My Dad, But He’s Not My Father | by Nora Gray

You’re not my dad.

I used to think monsters only lived under the beds.

But mine sleeps in the next room.

I never called him dad in my head. Not really.

Some people have fathers who teach them how to ride a bike. I have one who teaches fear.

Everyone thinks he’s perfect. No one sees what happens at home.

The Man Who No One Sees

He comes home at 3 a.m., smelling of alcohol and regret. His keys hit the floor, his words silence the air, and I know, tonight won’t be quiet. I hear the storm before it hits — the shouting, the crashing, the begging. My mother’s voice breaking like a glass.

Then silence.

That terrifying, heavy silence.

The Mask He Wears

And in the morning, the sun rises like nothing happened. The man who tore us apart kisses her cheek and pretends to love us. Outside, people wave at him. They call him a good, successful man. They don’t see the blood on his words or the bruises he leaves behind, on skins, on souls.

Everyone thinks he’s perfect.

But perfection is just a mask for monsters.

Why?

Sometimes I think … maybe he’s just a sad man. Maybe his dad hurt him, too. But even if he did, I can’t forgive him. He ruined my life, and he keeps ruining it. He is a monster. I’m fifteen. Fifteen and carrying all the weight I shouldn’t have to. I hate him. I despise the word dad because it comes with fear, shame, and … trauma. And yet … he is still my father.

All The Weight I’m Carrying

I can’t fix him. I can’t fix my mom. I can’t fix this life. I’m tired. So tired. My heart aches, my mind races, my body waits for peace that never comes.

Fragments of Me

But I can survive it. I can breathe. I can write. Because if I don’t, it will swallow me whole. I am not my father. I am not his chaos. I am me. One day, I will be free. But today, I am still surviving him.

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