Do You Even Deserve To Be My Father?

By Anshul Purvia

Eighteen birthdays

not one candle lit by you.

Not one hand on my head,

not one word saying “I’m proud of you.”

When I was little,

I thought love had a formula:

If I topped every class,

if I won every prize

maybe you’d come back.

Maybe you’d smile.

Maybe you’d stay.

I asked Ma,

“Where is he?”

“When will he come?”

Every answer was a wound

wrapped in silence.

And every time I saw a father

swinging his daughter by the arms,

something inside me turned to stone.

They say scars fade

but no one tells you

how loud they scream

when the world goes quiet.

In fourth grade,

the teacher said, “Write about your hero.”

Everyone wrote about their dads.

I just stared at the page

because how do you write about a ghost

who never even tried to haunt you?

So I became what you never saw

brilliant, obedient,

a mirror of pain polished with perfection.

A people-pleaser,

too scared to let love in,

because you taught me

that love leaves.

You and I

we might share a face,

but I swear

I’ll never share your ways.

I’ll grow with my mother,

with my grief tucked beneath my ribs,

with this emptiness that no one sees

and I’ll learn to laugh despite it.

I’ll be everything you weren’t.

And you

you’ll be the one

who regrets.

By Anshul Purvia