That's not a father
There’s a part missing in a person when their dad’s not there.
A part that even though you hate them for choosing something or someone else over you repeatedly, you wish that they were proud of you and the things you’ve accomplished.
Then you look in the mirror and see them in your eyes or in your smile or just you in general, then you hate yourself and them again just as much as before because what was so wrong with you that you weren’t worthy of being loved that way.
You were my father, my creator.
Why was I only your child when it was convenient, when I was easy to reach, within contact?
That's not a father.
That's a distant relative.
An acquaintance you have for the sole purpose of what they can do for you and what you can do for them.
That's not a father.
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