To the one who should have protected me—
I was your child.
Your firstborn.
The life that gave you a name, mother.
Father, I was your beginning,
Though you never wanted me here.
I was a prize.
A prize.
Nothing more.
You were young.
You were lost.
You were stumbling.
I understand that now.
I cannot blame you entirely.
But you, father—
When cruel…
When heartless…
You were unkind.
You do not deserve the name.
You do not get to yell—
Your anger still echoes in my ears.
You do not get to hit—
The sting of your hands lingers in memory.
You do not get to touch.
You do not get to see me.
You do not get my birthdays.
You do not get my milestones.
You do not get my life.
I hate you—
But I cannot.
You are my blood.
And yet—
Resentment lingers,
A weight against my chest,
A shadow whispering,
“Did he deserve it?
Or am I wrong?”
Today, a spark—
A video.
A man whispering,
“I’ll travel back to protect you.”
And I remembered
All the times I wasn’t.
The quiet.
The emptiness.
The silence.
But to those who did protect me—
Mother…
Thank you.
Thank you for coming back.
Thank you for lifting me,
Building me,
Holding me together.
You deserve my life.
You deserve my laughter.
You deserve my joy.
My birthdays.
My stuffed animals.
My favorite color.
You deserve it all.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
But you…
Father.
And all who failed me—
Rotten to the core.
You do not deserve the name.
You do not deserve me.
You do not deserve anything.

