Father of a broken home


When I was little, about 6 or 8 my dad built me a dream house. He built me my club house he built it with his bare hands. Those days when he was in my backyard creating his masterpiece was the most time I had ever consecutively spent with him. When I was little about 9 or 11 he got sick. Sexual assault that had crawled  into his body like a spider when he was young, crept inside spinning webs in his veins like sickness had found home in his body. It was as if the big bad wolf could just huff and puff blow his life down. He will never be rid of this disease. But when I was little, no one ever decided I needed to know that he was sick. No one ever told me that he wasn't just tired. When I was little, I thought so low of my father, I thought that his unwillingness to get up and play games with me had a correlation to how much he loved me. I thought that he didn't think I was fun or he didn't like me, when in fact he loved me more than anything. When I was little no body thought I had the right to know that my father could have died. Of course he didn't, but what if he had? I would have spent the rest of my life resenting the fact that I never had a father mixed with the crestfallen feelings of a young child who thought her father never loved her. I mean I guess it kept me innocent, but in reality it hurt me all the same. That same father who built me a house out of straw, that same father who used hard work for my play, had to waste away at his bed while I sat staring and prying him open with my thoughts and questions. Tugging at his seems that could split wide open and have his heart pour out. If I had known, I would build him a house made of bricks and mortar so strong that no new sickness could ever blow him away.

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