A Work In Progress

I remember when he would get mad at me for speaking properly, told me I was a sell out for curving my accent in order to be taken seriously and understood by those who were not of my native land.

I remember how angry he would get when I cried. Said emotion was for the weak, that I should suck it up and keep moving.
I remember those nights he had to leave for one emergency or another, funny how whenever I had an emergency he could never make it to me.
I remember the way he looked at my daughter, his daughter the first time he saw her after she was born. There was no love in his eyes, he wasn’t a doting father. He looked at her like he didn’t care.
I remember he wasn’t there! Not for my first ultrasound, not for her birth, not for her first laugh, first tooth, first steps. He’s still not there.
I remember how every time we had an argument for something he did wrong; he would turn it on me. Make me apologize at the end, still unsure of exactly what it was that I did, but just to make peace.
I remember the yelling, the excuses, and the lack of support at a time when all I needed was to hear “I got you”.
I remember saying I love you, I remember feeling like it was true, but I just can’t remember why because everything else that I remember was bad.
He was so wrong for me, I remember knowing this, but I can’t remember why it took me so long to leave, to let go, to love me again.