My father has never talked about what happened to him. Not really. We grew up knowing something was broken but not allowed to name it. The silence around his pain was louder than anything he ever said. It shaped our whole house.

He loved us. I don’t doubt that. But that love came through clenched teeth and long shadows. You never knew which version of him would walk through the door. So you learned early how to disappear inside yourself, how to stay small, how to keep the peace by never needing it.

Even now, as adults, we can barely talk. A few minutes in and something always turns sharp. He gets upset. We retreat. Then the silence stretches again for weeks, sometimes months. And every time, I wonder why it’s so hard to just talk like a father and daughter should. I wonder why nothing I do ever feels like enough.

It’s strange watching him be kind to my child. Soft in ways I never knew. And I want to be grateful for that. I am. But there is grief in watching someone else receive the version of love you always hoped for. That grief sits somewhere quiet inside me, asking questions I don’t know how to answer.

I know he carries more than he lets on. I know war doesn’t end just because someone comes home. But I wish he had tried. I wish he had looked at his children and decided we deserved more than silence and short fuses.

I still try sometimes. I still call. Still hope for a different outcome. But I also know now that it’s okay to stop chasing conversations that never held me. I didn’t cause the storm. I just learned how to survive in it. And survival does not mean I owe anyone my peace.