Two years ago, my father was arrested.
And I know what you're thinking: What did he do? How do I feel?
The truth is… I'm not sure. My feelings are tangled.
He was my best friend, my confidant.
Not the richest man, not the calmest — but he was mine.
He'd bring leftovers from work like they were treasure, wake me up in the middle of the night for ice cream runs, buy me novels when he could. The small things. The ones that mattered.
I remember reading The Great Gatsby.
Such a beautiful story — fragile, like glass. I know the love between Gatsby and Daisy barely lasted a day, but it stayed with me.
Gatsby did everything for her, trying to prove his love in ways words couldn't.
I remember that bedroom scene: Daisy in a soft white dress, Gatsby in his usual shirt and slacks. They looked like children playing house — laughing, clinging to the moment like they knew it wouldn't last.
There was this one part — they were on a boat, wind in Daisy's hair, and she smiled in that way people do when they feel free. Her eyes almost glowing.
And then their kiss — that first, delicate kiss.
It wasn't just lips touching — it was breath shared, tears shed, unspoken things finally whispered without sound.
I felt it.
Their love felt pure. Unbreakable.
But love, I've learned, doesn't always come dressed in white.
Because my father — the same man who brought me books and midnight ice cream — was a monster to my mother.
How can someone have the kindest heart and the darkest soul?
How can one man hold so much love and cruelty inside him?
I remember when I was six.
The memory is blurry at the edges, but the fear? That part is sharp.
I heard a scream. Ran downstairs, barefoot and scared.
And there she was — my mom. Crying, her hand bleeding where it struck a chair.
I didn't understand at first. I froze. I waited for someone — for him — to help.
And then the man stepped forward.
Tall. Silent. Cold.
He dragged her by the hair like she was weightless. I remember trying to see his face. I needed to know who could do that to her.
Then he turned.
It was him.
My dad.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
That was the moment the truth split me in half.
The man I adored — who made me feel safe — was the same man who made her feel small.
I wet myself from fear, then ran upstairs and cried until sleep finally took me.
It's strange how the mind hides things.
I buried that memory, buried it deep. Held on to the good — the stories, the smiles, the sound of his laughter.
Until the day they took him away.
And suddenly, I remembered everything.