I never talked about what happened in our house growing up. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I wasn’t sure anyone would believe me.

My father had a way of making everything seem normal to the outside world. He held a steady job, laughed with the neighbors, and even coached little league. But behind closed doors, it was a different story.

I learned early that silence was safer. That showing emotion meant weakness. That if I could just be perfect—never mess up, never talk back, never cry—maybe my father wouldn’t notice me.

But it never worked.

Even now, at 27, I still hears my father’s voice in my head, reminding me that I'm never good enough. Every time I make a mistake at work, every time someone raises their voice, my body tenses, waiting for the explosion that isn’t coming.

The worst part? I still loves my  father. And that’s the part that hurts the most.

                                     -Ty