My father stayed quiet most days, his pride damaged beyond repair.

My father stayed quiet most days, his pride damaged beyond repair. But slowly, over months of silence and staring into the fire, I pieced together the fractured story—bits overheard from old voicemails, fragments muttered in his restless sleep, and documents left behind like breadcrumbs in the pockets of his old coat.

It hadn’t been abuse. At least, not in the way the world understands it. There were no bruises, no broken bones. He was a demanding man, yes. Maybe even cruel at times during my childhood—rigid, uncompromising. But he was not violent.

What he had been was a barrier.