When I was a kid, I was the only child in the house from my mother’s previous marriage and my stepfather made it abundantly clear to me that I would always measure short of his standards.
No matter what task I was set to do, when I believed I had done well and sought his approval, he would either tell me I’d accomplished nothing or give a quick, dismissive look and say, “it’s good start.”
He was absent, both physically and emotionally, and I was glad for that, because when he was around he was often verbally abusive and very loud about it. I remember I once asked him why he needed to yell and call me names instead of simply talking, and his answer was, “nothing else gets through your thick skull.”
Once, I remember I was being dressed down for entering his office, and he said, “I ask so little of you. Do your chores, pull your own weight, stay out of trouble. I give you food, clothes, I let you live under my roof-“ at which point I cut him off to ask, “you ‘let’ me? I thought I was your daughter and I lived here.” His immediate answer? “Well then maybe you should act like it.”
I was a lonely child, and never had many friends, feeling like there was some kind of wall between myself and the rest of the world, and spent the bulk of my time wandering around the woods and reading every book I could get my hands on. I only ever wanted to read, or wander, and when I was being punished in a hands-off capacity his go-to move was usually to forbid me from reading. (This was how I started writing.)
He would make me eat things that made me sick, lock me out of the house while I was away, and constantly go on about how there was something just fundamentally, innately wrong with me. That I was slow, retarded, off, “touched in the head”. (That one was his favourite.)
Years passed like this. Well over a decade. When I turned seventeen I moved out and promised myself I’d never see him again, and on the one occassion I had to return to the house a year later I did so when it was empty to find myself caught off-guard by him swinging by for an unexpected drop-in, at which point I hid in a closet and waited in silence for him to leave. (About forty-five minutes.)
When I had my freedom, I found myself swinging between fear of everyone and hatred of myself and this odd itch under my skin that made me want to fight anyone bigger than me.
Then I started having emotions again. Anger, which was wonderful, because eventually it let me figure out that as odd as I still was, he had been wrong to treat me poorly. That “abuse” was a word I could say out loud.
We didn’t speak for nearly six years, and only because I visited my siblings and he was their ride home.
I had no intentions of speaking with him, but he found me in a moment alone anyways. And when he did, he said, “I’m sorry.”
There was more after that, but I’d heard him apologize for his actions before. It had been years since I’d had any faith in his ability or desire to do better.
But I wasn’t under his thumb anymore, he had no power over me, and I had siblings who loved him. Any revenge I’d once considered was tiring to think of now. So I told him, “I’m not ready to forgive you, and I don’t want to be your kid, but if you want to do right by me, then take this as a learning experience. It’s too late for me, you fucked that up, but don’t fuck it up with them. Don’t do this again.”
He promised he would. I figured it wasn’t in my hands anymore. We kept our distance. And to my surprise, he did somehow, miraculously, change.
We still aren’t close. We never will be. But I visit his house with my siblings and watch movies together, and while I always have to move my plate a seat further from his at the table I’m surprised to say it isn’t terrible.
I don’t say any of this to come off like a wise, grown, benevolent person who has it all figured out. I only changed his name on my phone from “asshole” two years ago, and that was three years after I added and then immediately blocked it. I’m no victim in need of saving, I’m no martyr on a cross, and I got my good share of shots in when I could afford it.
I don’t say this to commend or condemn HIM, either. He was a shit father to me and after thirteen or so years of it finally realized he was the problem and put the effort in to fix himself. He’s raising his existing children very well now, and that’s all that matters.
I don’t say any of this for any grand, moral reason. Not because I intend to pass off my lived experiences as a neat and tidy lesson on forgiveness or growth or healing or whatever.
No, I’m sharing all this today because last night we all sat down together in one big room and watched Frankenstein (2025) on his hugeass flatscreen in stone dead silence, except graphic TV violence always makes me giggle so every time The Creature bitch-slapped someone’s face off I had to choke back tears, and you cannot fully appreciate what that atmosphere was like without context
