You never apologized.

I might have forgotten every time your voice grew to a hostile roar, forgotten each time you threatened to break my legs and actually tried to, if you'd just apologized.

You pretend to be so religious, praying and acting saintly in front of everyone else, but you still don't know what it means to respect the four of us.

'Woman was made to clean the shoes of man.' you said pretentiously, as if that was some kind of sick explanation for the pain you'd given my mother every day of her life.

You probably don't even know I heard that. You are, after all, the one person in the household that goes purposely eavesdropping in the hopes of something to get angry about. 

But I did. And those words have festered in my mind like a disease.

You have three daughters. Three. 

Is it a crime that I was born a girl? Is that why you never loved me as a child? Why I was just never good enough? Do you even give a damn what happens to me in the future, if I ever ended up in an abusive relationship, because I'm simply a 'woman', lesser than man?

Don't look at me. Don't laugh when I tell you to treat my mother as an equal. Don't try to smile or touch me affectionately, because we both know I want nothing more than to push you off. 

It's too little, too late.


You never apologized. 

The End

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