I used to hate my father—not because of the physical punishment, but because he was never really there for me. He didn’t show up to celebrate my achievements, to encourage me, or to guide me. The only time he made his presence known was when it was time to punish me. He never missed that.
When I became a father myself, I started to see things more clearly, and I blamed him even more. I remember holding my sons for the first time—two boys who had just come into the world—and wondering if I could really love them. At first, I felt like I was pretending to care. Maybe my father had felt the same way. Maybe he had to pretend too, and that’s why he was the way he was.
But over time, I realized I did love my sons. When I was away from them, at first, it was a relief. But then, my heart would ache to see them again, to hold them. It made me wonder if my father ever had the chance to feel that way. If only he had shown me more love, more attention.
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