My Pitiful Father

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My Pitiful Father

I always thought that family was supposed to stick by family through all of the tough circumstances. So why did my father just walk out on my family when we needed him the most? How could he make us suffer and blame it all on me? Every family has its problems and arguments once in a while. My father was our family’s problem. His presence made us all feel uneasy.

I do not know what it was, but when I was a little girl, I feared my father. I feared being alone with him; I feared going out with him; I feared him. Around him I felt like I was imperfect because I thought he was perfection. He seemed to have gotten along with my older and younger brother better than me. I was the one to take his orders and follow them.

The more I grew up, the more distant I became from my father. When my father was mad at any one of us, it seemed like the end of the world. Nothing was worse than my father completely ignoring me. When I was little, I went with my father and brother to the toy store. My dad bought my brother a toy, and for the first time ever, I got mad and jealous at him. My dad saw how I reacted towards my brother and when we all got to the car, he told me not to get inside. This happened more than ten years ago, and I still can feel that tightening feeling in my stomach. I still feel the tears that came down as I watched my dad cold-heartedly drive off and leave me in the parking lot. My father had no remorse when he saw me crying. It seemed to me that he was more satisfied with himself when he saw anyone of us crying.

My dad was far from perfect. But it was fear that held my brothers and me from telling anyone anything he did, especially my mom. My mom worked during the evening, ...

... middle of paper ... seeing us (particularly me) unhappy. Why? It is hard to say. Events like this never made any sense to me.

While I was in my brother’s room, I called my mother and told her what was going on. I did not realize that I had left the door open, and my father was standing there and overheard me. He started screaming and yelling at me and told me I was the reason why he and my mother did not get along anymore. He told me I was the reason why the family was breaking apart—it was all my fault. Was it really my fault? Or was it just a “cover story,” because he knew it was his fault.

I did not understand how a person who brought me into this world, who was supposed to love me unconditionally, could take all his love away. My father helps me to realize that hate is a “cover story” for love. I know my father loves me regardless of what has happened in the past.
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