I love my father.

  That part is not up for debate.

  I know his story,

  his wounds,

  the way the world shaped him

  before he ever had a chance to choose differently.

  I understand him.

  Maybe too well.

  That’s the problem.

  Because loving him doesn’t mean

  I want a man like him.

  Doesn’t mean I want to build a life

  inside the same patterns

  that taught me how to survive instead of rest.

  I don’t want my partner

  to carry the same storms

  I already learned to read in my sleep.

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  I don’t want to translate moods,

  soften edges,

  or brace for silence

  that feels heavier than words.

  I am already like him.

  In ways I admire.

  In ways I hate admitting.

  In ways that scare me.

  And that’s exactly why

  I don’t want my children

  to inherit this language of endurance.

  I don’t want them learning love

  as something you navigate carefully,

  like a room full of breakable glass.

  If I have children,

  I want them better than me.

  Softer where I hardened.

  Safer where I learned to armor up.

  Unburdened by the quiet lessons

  we pass down without meaning to.

  I love my father.

  And still—

  I refuse to recreate him.

  That isn’t betrayal.

  It’s discernment.

  It’s the difference between understanding

  and repeating.

  And maybe that’s the most honest kind of love there is:

  to see someone clearly,

  to carry compassion for who they are,

  and still decide

  this ends with me.