Page 58 of October
My dad's brow furrowed.
"That's when everything boiled over," I said, more firmly now. My voice didn't shake this time—it was steady, like I'd repeated the truth enough times to finally believe it. "It wasn't just about work anymore. It was her. The way he not only prioritized his job... but prioritizedher. The way he left me—on mybirthday—to go save her cat."
I paused, and for a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the kitchen clock.
"That was when I realized I'd been clinging tomemories. To moments. To these quiet little offerings that I had treated like proof of love." I looked at my dad, my voice smaller now. "But what if they weren't proof at all? What if he did all of it out ofduty? Out of habit? What if he loved the idea of being good to me more than he actuallylovedme?"
My dad didn't rush to fill the silence. He just stood there, letting me say what I needed to.
"So... do you mind me spending time with him?" he asked, his tone gentle but serious. "Because listen, October—if it bothers you, just say the word, and I'll stop. No questions, no hesitation."
I blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his voice. "Stop? No, Dad. Of course not. I'm actually... grateful. After everything with his father, and him going low contact with his mom, I don't want him to feel completely alone."
My dad let out a breath—not quite relief, but something close to it—and looked at me, eyes steady and open. "I told you and asked your permission because I want you to remember something," he said. "Youare my choice, October. Always."
His voice dropped lower, more thoughtful.
"But two things can be true. I'm still angry at him—angry for how he hurt you, how blind he was. But... I also feel sorry for him. Maybe because I see myself in him."
At that moment, my mom appeared behind him, quiet as ever. She didn't say a word. Just wrapped her arms around his waistfrom behind, rested her chin against his shoulder for a beat, then grabbed her mug of tea and left the room. Her silence said everything—solidarity, support, understanding.
I looked back at my dad. "How so?" I asked.
He nodded slowly, as if turning over a memory in his mind that hadn't been touched in years. "I had the worst parents you can imagine," he said. "Just like him. But unlike Thomas, I had my uncle. Uncle Robert. If it weren't for him..." He paused, eyes clouding over. "I literally wouldn't be alive today."
"What?" I asked softly.
He raised a hand. "Don't worry, baby. It was a long time ago. And I'm okay now. Have been for a while. But only because I had someone who stepped in. Who showed me a different way to be a man."
"My parents, God, they were a mess. People see pictures, hear a few stories, and assume it was just strict parenting or old-fashioned discipline. But it wasn't that. It was chaos. The kind of chaos that teaches you early on how to flinch before you're hit. How to disappear in a room while still standing in it."
He paused, then let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere deep.
"Physical abuse? Honestly... that was the easy part. Preferable, even. Bruises fade. You learn to hide the welts, work around the pain. But the emotional stuff? The verbal cuts? They linger. You can't see them, so no one rushes to treat them. They just... stay."
His eyes found mine, and I saw the boy he must have been once. The one who didn't get hugged enough. The one who was always trying to be enough.
"People often believe that once you grow up, you suddenly become an adult—like flipping a switch or crossing an invisible finish line. They think you can neatly pack up your childhood experiences, tuck them away like an old box in the attic, and move on with your life as if nothing ever happened. But the truth is far more complicated. Trauma doesn't simply disappear or fade into the background. It seeps deep into your body, embedding itself in your nervous system, rewiring how you react to the world. It changes the way your brain chemistry works, shaping your fears, your hopes, and the way you connect with others—often without you even realizing it.
It's not just memories locked away in a dusty box; it's a living, breathing part of you that can surface in the smallest moments—a flinch at a sharp tone, a sudden rush of anxiety, or an invisible wall that keeps you from fully trusting someone. Growing up doesn't erase those wounds; it teaches you how to live with them, sometimes without even knowing you're still carrying the weight."
He gave a short, bitter laugh, dry and sharp, "Wouldn't that be great?" I said, my voice thick with sarcasm. "If you could just 'move on' from abuse the moment you turn eighteen? Like—poof! You're grown now. Suddenly emotionally mature. You can analyze your trauma with perfect clarity, set boundaries like a therapist, and stop the panic attacks with deep breathing and gratitude journaling."
I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping. "People act like growing up gives you some magic override button. Like agealone rewires your nervous system, undoes the fear, the shame, the twisted logic you grew up swallowing like air. But it doesn't. Itneverdoes."
I looked at him, my voice softening but still raw. "Childhood trauma doesn't just disappear because you can name it now. It hides in your reflexes. In your triggers. In how quickly your voice shakes when someone raises theirs. In how fast you say sorry when you didn't even do anything wrong."
I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
"It shows up when someone you love is kind to you, and you don't know how to receive it without flinching. It shows up when you sabotage good things because somewhere deep down, you still believe you don't deserve them."
I paused, heart pounding.
"So yeah, it would bewonderfulif you could just outgrow pain. But that's not how it works. You don't outgrow it. You outlive it—if you're lucky. If you're willing to face it. If you're brave enough to stop pretending it didn't happen."
I didn't speak. I didn't offer advice or comfort too early. I just let him speak, let him empty what he'd carried for too long.
"Because no," he continued, his voice a little hoarser now. "that emotional manipulation? The way love is weaponized—held just out of reach, offered only when you perform, when you're quiet, when you'regood.That constant urge to appease, to win approval. The fury that grows when you keep getting rejected by the very people who were supposed to love you first and most. That kind of damage... it doesn't just hurt. It rewrites you. Pieceby piece. Until you're not sure which parts are real and which are just survival."
