I used to be afraid of him. I am getting better now. I saw him at Stop & Shop once. He was studying his receipt as we were pulling out. My mom pointed him out to me, and I folded myself over in my seat, head flung under the window, in order to be out of view.

I remember every moment of that night except the moment in which I was dragged under, February 14, 2012, Valentine’s Day. It was 10 o’clock at night, and I was working on an eighth grade English project for Twelfth Night. I had on a long sleeved pink and white striped sweater. After the incident that sweater would be stained blood red.

He told me to clean up, but I refused. I should have sensed what was to come by the resentful look in his eyes and the foreboding weight of each determined step as he surged forward. I carefully stepped back toward the kitchen divider, palms spread behind my back so I could catch the wall when I hit it. I scurried past him to the opposite corner formed by the intersection of the sliding glass door and the kitchen cabinet.
Arms raised, I tensed my muscles to cage my face, and then the first blow came. It crashed down on my head, sending pain surging through my body.

After the first blow I became numb. The adrenaline pumping through my body saved me from the pain. I was only vaguely aware of what was going on. Blow after blow rained down on my head. On my hands and knees on the cold kitchen floor, I saw blood pour from my face, speckling the white tile.
I was in a state of shock, but one word screamed in my mind:

“Yes.”

Yes, he has finally gone too far. Yes, this time the wounds are beyond bruises and aches; no one will be able to dismiss my pain as self-pity. Yes, he will finally have to face justice.
With a shaking, raised right arm I gripped the handle of the sliding glass door and forced it open. Stumbling out into the night, I ran, letting the cool winter air and obscurity of the darkness receive me. I found a patch of soft grass and collapsed in a pool of tears and sadness. A strange amalgam formed as the salt of my tears mixed with my blood and poured down my face, soaking my lips, mouth, and neck.
My mother found me there and begged me to go back inside, but I swore that I would never go in that house or speak to that man again.

The doctors said my dad could have killed me that night. The court issued an automatic restraining order, and I didn’t see him for four years after that.

Second-degree assault, and my mom forced me not to press charges, so all he had to do was attend a few anger-management courses. Second-degree assault, and he never actually admitted to hitting me. The closest I got to an apology was a phone call that my mother forced him to make in which he mumbled across the line that he was sorry for pushing me. Yeah, thanks, Dad. Thanks for really swallowing your pride there.

I still haven’t forgiven him. My best friend said, “But you have to forgive. He’s your dad.” Well, he may be my father, but he isn’t a dad to me. He hasn’t been for a long time. Every night he sat on the couch playing video games until 2 a.m. in the house my mother paid for. The one night she demanded he go to bed, and he raised his laptop over his head and threatened to smash it into a million pieces. My mother said that was not the person she married 20 years ago.
After his accident, something disconnected in his brain, and he was never the same. That funny, lovable, and genuine person I used to know was gone. I have a father. Everyone has a father. At some point 23 of his chromosomes merged with 23 of your mom’s chromosomes to form the unique set of DNA that makes you, you. I have a father in the strictly biological sense. I don’t have a dad. I don’t have a male figure to look up to, although that’s what I desperately want.
I am plagued with the dilemma of forgiving my father. I want to forgive him, but it is going to take time. Every year up until I was 18, he sent me a birthday present, and every year I sent it back, still wrapped. I wasn’t going to accept a gift from a person I didn’t want to see in a better light. That would mean I accepted his effort to move closer to me. I didn’t want him any closer.

When I turned 18, I finally felt ready to reestablish a relationship with my father. I realized that continuing to deny myself his presence was only hurting me. I thought maybe if I had a dad in my life, the big gaping hole in my heart wouldn’t be so big.

About a month ago, I met him in Barnes and Nobles for the first time after four years of separation. Anxiety prickled my skin as I walked to the table where he was sitting and shook his hand. I recognized him, but he was clearly changed. He was fatter and carried himself in a different manner, as if he didn’t have the same control over the world that he used to, as if he had given up the fight for power. I listened to him, but it didn’t matter what I thought so long as I maintained eye contact. I let him believe we were having a conversation, but I never engaged. I wasn’t ready to let my guard down to this person who had caused me so much pain.

I hope that I will be able to fully forgive my father one day, but to do that I’d have to see him in a different light. I’d have to see him as a full person. One who values life and realizes the effect his actions have on others. As of now, the memories remain intact, and I am still scared of his touch. When it was time to leave, I gave him a handshake. He said, “I hope I will get a hug from you some day.” I hope so too, Dad; I hope so too.