He never had emotional safety at home.
But his father never had it either.
He learned early
that silence was strength,
that providing mattered more than presence,
that tenderness was a liability.
He never had space to feel.
So he built walls instead—
not to hurt anyone,
but to survive.
He never had permission
to rest inside his own fear.
So he taught himself how not to need.
He never had a father
who could see his pain,
because his father
was carrying generations of it
with no language
and no relief.
And I grew up loving a man
who loved me the only way he knew how.
I mistook distance for disinterest.
I mistook restraint for absence.
I mistook silence for a lack of care.
But now I see it.
He wasn’t withholding love.
He was rationing what he was never given.
I’m not breaking from him.
I’m breaking the pattern—
so tenderness doesn’t feel dangerous,
so presence doesn’t feel earned,
so love doesn’t require armor.
Three generations.
One son brave enough to feel.
That’s how cycles soften.
That’s how healing begins.
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