I hate my father. I hate what he’s done and I will never forgive him.
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Stacey was my best friend. We loved each other just as much as best friends should. I always knew that at her home, something was wrong. She never invited me over. She never talked about her home or family. Only last year I found out her dad was in a gang. It didn’t really bother me much, out of naivety.
It was weird. I’d never really known my father before that day he turned up at our door. Needed a place to stay, he said. He looked fierce, shabby. If it hadn’t been my father, she would have shut the door. But typical Mum. She can never let go of the past. She opened up the door.
My father was in a gang as well; our neighbourhood was full of them. I didn’t know how or why, but he was. The difficult part was, he wasn’t in Stacey’s Dad’s gang.
He was the enemy.
Stacey’s Dad was killed. Her mother fled and she was so, so alone. She forgot I was there. Nobody could have known it was so bad. She didn’t tell a soul.
Stacey committed suicide last August.
I knew it was him. The evidence was everywhere.
He’d taken me by surprise by knowing the family.
“Family friends,” he’d lied to me.
He wasn’t at home the night it happened. He came back one night later, before I knew. As soon as I found out, he was gone.
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I open the door and he’s standing there. All the rage and fury that’s been built up, I just unleash it there and then. I scream unforgiveable words, lash out at him. I want to make him pay for what he did.
“I’ll kill you!” I scream, “You’re a dead man!”
He just stands there. And takes all my abuse. A silent tear runs down his unshaven cheek.
“You don’t understand,” he says.
“That is a horrid, horrid excuse for murder!” I yell and slam the door in his face.
He catches the door, opens it and looks at me, appalled, shocked and mildly confused.
“I’ve never murdered anyone,” he claims, “Babe, I’m a double agent. I was trying to protect him. I was on their side.”
The guilt and confusion overwhelms me and I’m gone, on the floor.
When I wake up he’s there, his face loving, caring, kind. This man I barely know, I know I may never forgive him, truly, in my heart, for the grief is so strong. But I’ll try. Hopefully, in time, I’ll know him, I’ll love him, and I’ll be proud to call him… my Father.
Btw, i dont agree with summerlove...OFCOURSE dads call their daughters 'babe' and what's more? it wasnt actually a fight 'cause it was only the girl shouting at her father...he didn't shout back did he? He was actually trying to cool her down and make her understand the truth.
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