Dad's Little Princess?

Dear Dad,

For the longest time, I called you my hero. I used to tell my friends that my dad was stronger and kinder than theirs. You spoke in a way that felt safe and charming almost believable. But I never realized those same words could break a person, too.

You’d come home with heavy footsteps and silence like a storm. Mom would rush to make things perfect — dinner hot, house clean, kids quiet. We thought we were being good. But it was never good enough for you. I remember the sound of your voice, not as warm, but as thunder. I remember hiding behind the couch with my sister, Watching shadows move across the hallway wall like monsters in a bedtime story.

And yet, I still wore the tiara you bought me when I was six. "You're Daddy’s little princess," you used to say. Funny how that title felt like a crown, not a cage.

I once thought love meant raising your voice. That apologies were flowers after slamming doors. That bruises on her arm could be explained away by clumsiness or accidents that nobody saw. But I saw them, Dad. And I saw her. The way she shrank when you entered a room, The way her eyes searched the floor for safety, The way she learned to read your moods like the weather.

Stormy. Always stormy.

You were supposed to be my king, but all you ruled was fear. You raised your voice instead of your children, and you taught me how to disappear. I learned to tiptoe through life, to measure my words with caution, To pretend. Pretend that this was normal, pretend that pain was love, pretend that you were still the man I once adored.

There was a time I believed you loved Mom. But love doesn’t leave scars in heart. Love doesn’t throw plates across rooms. Love doesn’t say "sorry" like a broken record. Before repeating the same scene again and again.

Do you remember my sixth birthday? You bought me a pink cake with plastic roses And told me I was the light in your life. But later that night, mom cried in the bathroom with the door locked, and I didn’t understand why.

I understand now.

You see, being Dad’s little princess meant guarding secrets in my castle of silence. It meant smiling in public and crying at night. It meant pretending to love someone who made it so hard to feel safe.

I looked up to you, Dad. Until I realized I was looking up to a man who kept dragging everyone down. And yet… a part of me still wants to love you.

Isn’t that the cruelest part? How a child’s heart doesn’t stop hoping, even when it’s shattered?

But I’m not your little princess anymore. I’ve broken the spell. I’ve unlearned the fairytale. And I’ve learned that love is gentle, not fear. I’ve learned that real kings don’t need to roar. They protect, not control. They build, not break. They cherish, not chain.

Mom doesn’t flinch anymore when the door opens. We laugh a little louder now. There’s still healing to be done, but every day without your shadow is another day in the sun.

I hope you read this someday — not to hurt you, but so you’ll know the truth. I was never just a doll to be posed in your image.

I am a woman now. And my crown was never yours to give or take.

Goodbye, Dad.

Your princess no longer needs a king.