Dad Why?

I thought I had a dad,

a shadow I could stand beside,

a name that meant safety,

a voice that would answer mine.

I didn’t know you would run away—

from me, from her, from us—

leaving questions in your place

and silence where love should’ve been.

Dad, why?

Was I too small to matter,

too young to miss you this deeply?

Did you know every step you took away

echoed inside my chest?

I watched my mother grow tired

carrying strength meant for two,

And I learned early

how absence can still be loud.

Your empty chair taught me lessons

you never stayed to explain.

Dad, why?

Was it fear, or freedom you chased?

Did you forget the promises?

You never gave me the chance to hear?

I searched for you in memories

that never had time to form.

I grew up filling the space you left,

becoming my own protector,

proof that I could survive on my own.

Still, some nights, the child in me asks—

not with anger,

but with aching wonder—

Dad… why?