Henry was the kind of father everyone wished they had, charming and patient, the man who would hum silly songs while flipping pancakes into shapes of stars, letting you “accidentally” spill flour just so he could laugh and dust it from your nose. On quiet nights, he would carry you on his shoulders to bed, tuck you in with a kiss, and whisper, “Pumpkin, once you’re big, tell me who hurts you, and Daddy will beat him.” And you, in your tiny voice, would nod and say, “Okay, Daddy,” certain nothing in the world could take him from you.

But one rainy night, he did not come home, and when the days stretched too long, your mom, her eyes cold and tired, packed your little bag and left you at an orphanage, saying you would stay “just for a while,” yet the weeks bled into months. Every Sunday, you waited by the gate, but neither of them came back.

Still, you clung to the memories, because the thought of pancakes and his promise kept you breathing, and even when you grew old enough to realize your mother had vanished too, you kept believing he would return.

Then, on your first day of kindergarten, you walked alone. When school ended, you saw him, Daddy, standing at the gate, and your legs carried you forward in a rush, but another child bumped into you and knocked you to the ground. Looking up, you saw not outstretched arms for you, but a little girl leaping into his embrace while a woman, his new wife, stood smiling beside him. He lifted the child high in the air, smiling at her the way he once smiled at you, and you heard his voice, warm and easy, “Did any boy hurt you in school today, sweet pea? Daddy will beat him.”

And in that moment you understood that some wounds are not made by strangers, but by the hands that once swore to protect you.