The Apple of My Father's Eye

I was born into chaos — no, actually, I was weaponized from the moment I was born. I was her ticket to Canada. She married my father because she needed to escape her reality. And once she was here and she got what she wanted, she didn’t need him any more.

My father didn’t just hold me — he saw me. He looked at me in awe, with pride and I always saw and felt the love he had for me. He encouraged me, he pushed me, he made me fearless, he nurtured me.

When I looked into his eyes, I saw love. I felt it. I felt seen. I felt like I mattered. That feeling didn’t last forever, but it lasted long enough to imprint. It became the foundation I clung to during the violent years that followed.

Every time my mother screamed, hit, or humiliated me…

Every time men came and went…

Every time I sat in silent shame, with survival as the only thing I knew—

I still remembered the safety of my father’s love.

The memory of him kept a light burning inside me.

To this day, I can tell you: I never believed, and maybe still don’t, that anyone will ever love me the way he did. I shouldn’t say that — because my son does — but I mean in a relationship, that kind of love.

And yet now, I write this, and I know.

My father was the reason I pushed forward.

My father was the reason I knew what love felt like.

My father was the reason I believed I was worth something. He made me feel it -and that feeling never left.

Even though he left, even though the years that followed tried to erase my worth and put me on trial again and again - I never forgot what it felt like to be loved. To be seen.

This part of the story — this memory — I hold with tenderness.

Because it reminds me: I was always meant to shine.

This is the girl my father accepted unconditionally.

And this is the girl I’ve spent a lifetime fighting to return to.