More.

At this moment, even though it’s not something I want to accept, I’m teaching myself to understand that maybe, just maybe, your mother needed you more. And maybe, just maybe, all the things that were done to separate us, to conquer and dismantle what little was left of me, were never about love… but control.

Because I still can’t wrap my mind around how two people can create life together… only for one to feel entitled to take it away. To claim ownership over what was meant to be shared. For reasons I’ll never fully understand.

I hope one day you’ll know the truth:
That my hands were tied.
That my back stayed against the wall.
That my mind was played with on a loop while I still tried to show up whole.

They say time heals.
But for me, time just taught tolerance.

Distractions helped pass the hours, but in the stillness, in the quiet corners of the day, it’s always you.
Seconds stretch into hours.
Hours into days.
Days into weeks.
And suddenly, the years arrived.

Not a single moment passed where I didn’t think of you, feel you, or close my eyes and see your face.

There were/are days I swore I heard/hear your voice.

Other days, I believed we were speaking in silence, like telepathy across dimensions.
The daydreams of you walking through the door became so vivid they started to feel like memories.

I would rehearse what I’d do when I finally saw you again.

Would I cry?
Would I collapse?
Would I hold you until the sun came back up?
Would I freeze, questioning if it’s even real?
Would I recognize your scent
Would you recognize mine?

I write to you often.

Sometimes it’s in the form of letters.

Sometimes it’s through the art I make or the people I pour love into.

Each piece, every gesture, is a breadcrumb back to me.

I leave them scattered across the world in hopes that one day, you’ll see them.

That you’ll find the messages and follow the trail home.

And if not in this life, then maybe when I’m gone, someone will hand you these pieces.

And maybe…

Just Maybe, I’ll finally be whole again.

— Dad