Because some memories were not painful because they were dramatic.
Some were painful because they were ordinary.
A childhood filled with small moments.
A father who smiled when guests were around.
A father who everyone admired.
A father who knew exactly how to appear like a good man.
“My father was respected,” I said.
Julian waited.
“Everyone loved him.”
“But you didn’t?”
I swallowed.
“I loved him because he was my father.”
The distinction mattered.
“But I was afraid of him.”
The room became quiet.
Julian looked down.
“Why?”
I thought about all the years I spent trying to bury those memories.
The late-night arguments.
The constant pressure.
The feeling that nothing I did was ever enough.
“He believed obedience was the same as respect.”
Julian’s expression changed.
I noticed.
