They say the best part of growing up was being daddy’s little girl. Giggling and running around the playground while he chased you, making monster noises. Hearing, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” making your heart swell with joy and pride. Walking down the aisle with him by your side then crying silently as he gives you away, but looking back and seeing that he too, has happy tears trickling down his cheeks, adoration in his deep brown eyes and him mouthing, “I love you.” But sometimes, that’s not what we get.
You see, I stand alone in his family pyramid. The bottom where it’s cold and neglected. Where the sun is hiding behind the harsh gray clouds, where there’s no smiles or laughter. Just pain and tears and numbness. I’m the joker of his family, while the rest are princes and princesses, the dirt beneath his worn out boots, the laughingstock, in my mind.
They say having a dad is best, that nothing else can compete with them.
Those three letters will always be engraved in the back of my mind, where everything is dark and silent, and his name?
…seems to be hidden in the shadows.