I don’t hate him anymore. But my body still remembers. Even now, when I hear my name in his voice, something in me flinches. Not out of anger. Out of instinct. Because once upon a time, that voice came just before the pain. And no amount of time, no apology, no reframe can make a nervous system forget what it learned to brace for.

He hit. That’s the part I didn’t say for years. Because admitting it meant pulling the thread on everything I had built around survival. I didn’t grow up confused. I grew up aware. Hyper-aware. I knew the sound of footsteps that meant I had seconds to disappear. I knew how to go quiet, go still, go invisible. I wasn’t “too sensitive.” I was responding to danger in the only ways a child knows how – with silence, compliance, and deep, aching hope that maybe next time would be different.

And still, there was love. That’s what makes it complicated. I loved him. I waited for him to be better. I made excuses I didn’t believe just to hold onto something soft in a house that taught me to fear softness. That love was real, and so was the damage. Both can be true.

I don’t hate him. But I’ll never pretend it didn’t happen. My healing doesn’t require a rewritten version of him. It requires me to stand in my truth without shame. I’m not broken. I’m not bitter. I’m a person who lived through what should never happen to any child – and somehow still found the strength to choose gentleness for myself.

That’s not weakness. That’s power.