For most of my childhood, I carried a quiet anger toward my father.
He was the only parent I had, yet to me, he always seemed absent—not because he wasn’t there, but because life with him felt like constant scarcity.
He worked himself to exhaustion, yet we were always short on money. Bills came before comfort. Needs came before wants. And as a kid, all I could see was what we didn’t have.
At school, I watched classmates unwrap new phones, talk about family trips, and wear clothes that still smelled like the store. I learned how to laugh along and pretend it didn’t bother me. But it did. Every single day.
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