Date: April 20, 2025
Author: Renee Holloway

Today I told someone that I don’t talk to my dad anymore. It slipped out so easily, like I’d rehearsed it a thousand times. And maybe I have. It’s just easier than explaining the truth—that I still see him almost every week. That we hug, we smile, and on the surface, we look like a picture-perfect father-daughter pair.

But the truth is, I’m performing. Every handshake, every polite laugh, every “How’ve you been?” is a scene in a play I wish I didn’t have to star in. Because behind all that forced normalcy is a mountain of pain I’ve carried since I was a kid.

He’s trying now. He’s “better” now. No more drug binges, no violent episodes. He remembers birthdays and speaks in soft tones. But I can’t forget the version of him who wasn’t any of those things. I can’t forget hiding in my room, crying until my stomach hurt, praying he wouldn’t come home high or angry or both.

So when I see him now—clean and calm—I don’t feel relief. I feel rage. Rage that I had to grow up too fast. Rage that my childhood was shattered by someone who was supposed to protect me. Rage that I still have to pretend everything’s fine just to keep the peace.

Sometimes, I think about what life would be like if he had overdosed back then. And I hate myself for that thought, but it crosses my mind more often than I care to admit. Maybe I wouldn’t be so broken. Maybe I wouldn’t have to keep lying to people about why I look like a loving daughter to a man I can’t even forgive.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop faking it. Or if I’ll ever be able to truly forgive him. Maybe I’ll keep lying, because sometimes it’s the only way I can breathe without unraveling.