Most every single ounce of me hates you, and, right or wrong, blames you for every awful moment.
And then I see my son’s smile. I hear my Juno sing. I stay blown away at my Rachel’s tenacity.
And that’s where the rage lives.
Because I hate you for what you did to me.
I hate that you found a sixteen-year-old girl and as a 26 yr old man you convinced her she was in love with a man who already knew better. I hate that I spent fourteen years believing survival was the same thing as living. I hate every bruise, every broken piece of myself, every time I looked in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the woman staring back.
I hate what it took to finally leave.
But today… today I’m angry for a different reason.
I’m angry because I watch you do to them what was done to you.
You know what it feels like to wait for your father to show up.
You know what it feels like to wonder why you weren’t enough.
You know what it feels like to make excuses for someone who keeps teaching you that you’re optional.
You lived that pain.
And somehow you still chose to hand it to your own children. Fuck you for that.
That is the part I cannot understand.That is what I will never forgive.
Because despite everything you did to me, I never wanted our children to carry the weight of either of us. They deserved to be loved loudly. Consistently. Without wondering if this would be the weekend Dad remembered they existed.
Instead, I watch them grow into remarkable people while quietly learning not to expect too much from the man who should have been one of their safest places.
It breaks something in me every single time.
People tell me hate is a heavy thing to carry.
Maybe they’re right.
But what they don’t understand is that my hate was never born from revenge. It was born from grief. Grief for the sixteen-year-old girl who never had a chance. Grief for the woman who lost fourteen years trying to earn love that was never going to come. And now… grief for my children, who are learning the same lesson from the other side.
The only peace I have found is this:
You did not get to define the ending.
You didn’t break them.
You didn’t break me.
You don’t get the final word.
They are kind despite you. Strong despite you. Compassionate despite you.
And I became the mother I needed when I was sixteen.
That will always matter more than the man who never became the father they deserved.
