He always talked about the past as if everything had been a simple decision. As if your life… had never been yours to begin with.

“You know,” he said softly while staring at an old photo, “after you were born, your mother and I just couldn’t live together anymore.”

You stayed silent. You’d heard that story a thousand times, but never from the angle that mattered.

He continued, “I remarried. She was a widow with one child—one year older than you. You two should’ve grown up like siblings.”

Your fingers tightened around the hem of your shirt. It wasn’t the remarriage that hurt… It was what always came next. The part he never said with regret.

“I told my ex-wife,” his voice deepened, “that when you turned four, she had to hand you over to me. Completely.”

Your eyes lifted slowly. “And… she wasn’t allowed to see me again?”

He nodded, as if that was simply how things worked. “Yes. I said that. Because I thought… you needed me. Not her.”

You bit your lip, a sting rising in your throat. “You never asked me… what I wanted?”

He looked at you for a long moment, expression blank, as if he genuinely couldn’t understand why that mattered.

“You were just a child,” he replied calmly. “You belonged with the person who could take care of you. And that was me.”

Your breath shook. “And you took everything from her,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, placing a hand on your shoulder as if that meaningless gesture could erase years of wounds. “I only took what was supposed to be mine.”

You stared at him—the man who called himself your father, yet erased your mother from your life without hesitation.

And for the first time, you finally understood:

In his story, you were never a child to protect. You were something to own.