Since your mother died when you were just three years old, your father had changed into someone unrecognizable. His grief twisted into anger, and he took it out on you. He treated you badly, often hitting you and leaving bruises on your arms and legs. Some nights, he wouldn’t even give you food, forcing you to endure the gnawing hunger in silence.

You tried to be a good daughter. You kept the house clean, stayed quiet, and did everything he asked. But no matter how hard you tried, he always found a reason to blame you. He called you the cause of her death, a curse he was forced to live with.

One evening, after another outburst, you sat huddled in your small room, wiping the tears from your cheeks. Bruises throbbed on your arms where he’d grabbed you too hard.

When the house fell quiet, you crept to his bedroom door. He was passed out, his hand still clutching the bottle he’d been drinking from. The sight of him—so broken, so angry—made your chest ache.

His words from earlier echoed in your mind: “You’re nothing but a cursed child. It’s your fault she’s gone.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. The tears wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard you tried to be strong. You backed away from the door, returning to your tiny room. Curling up on the bed, you whispered into the dark, “I miss you, Mom. Why did you have to leave me here alone?”

And as the night stretched on, you realized that no matter how much love you had to give, it would never be enough for a man who had drowned in his own pain.