I am roused form my almost sleep by headlights shining through my window. I sit up in bed and look at the car in the driveway. My dad just got home; it’s almost midnight. He didn’t say where he was going. He just left. That’s what he always does now; he just leaves. Never says a word of where he goes. Maybe the sad thing is that I’ve stopped asking.
It’s easier not to know. When I ask and he lies to me (and I know he’s lying) then I know everything is different. If I pretend I am ignorant of what he’s doing, then I can imagine he’s still my kind and loving father.
There is no longer any communication between us. He never tells me where he goes or what he does, and I don’t ask. Not knowing is easier for both of us. He can think I’m still his little girl and that he’s my hero. I don’t count on him for anything. I don’t tell him when there’s something wrong. I would rather cry myself to sleep than share a moment with him.
He used to be my hero, when I was a little girl and he was the man I trusted and looked up to. Now I see the real man behind the mask, he is not the one I knew. When did everything become this way? Why do I not care? Out of everything I ask myself, and everything I wonder about him, there is a certainty. I am not my father. I never will become him. And he is not my hero.