LUNES
9:47 PM

Dahlia Gray

It's been a month since my father spoke to me.

And it shouldn't have hurt. It wasn't my fault—yet it was. He could've been more considerate with his approach—but he wasn't. Nothing should have hurt as much as being ignored by your own father—especially someone who you always found yourself at quarrel with—but it did.

I feel like I'm going insane.

We sat at the dining table, enjoying our dinner to the whistle of the silence. Plates clink with metal forks, glasses dong with the occasional clash. My mother made no effort to start a conversation or fill the tension, despite being the middleman to both sides. I never expected her to, and I'll never wish to add onto her emotional labor—but it's just starting to affect me worse than it has before.

This is the longest he's given me the silent treatment.

And it hurts.

I don't know why it hurts so much. I've always said I wanted to leave him, to secure a job so rich, it funds my escape from this suffocating house that once raised me and just leave—without warning, without contact. The goal had always been a vivid image, but to have the picture painted right in front of me, I began to notice the hollow spots.

It's hurting me.

I'm going insane here, because I don't know if I'm on the right side. I highlight every single thing I did wrong and try to combat my argument with logic and reasoning—but none seems to suffice. My father did ask me to file his paperwork, and he asked nicely, without any malicious intent. I failed him, and for some reason, all of his screaming and insults he threw that night didn't seem to matter. It was as if a judge is hearing the settlement in court, and it's pleading with the prosecutor.

It was my fault, and passed all the screaming and insults disguised as bullet compliments–I was in the wrong. I didn't finish his paperwork, and I made a promise to. I didn't do what he asked, and he rightfully got upset with me. I failed him, and I hurt him, and my mind is being driven to the brink of insanity over who is right and who is wrong.

But my feelings...

It wouldn't matter in court.

My father finishes his dinner and silently stands from the table, excusing himself into the kitchen. I follow right after him, despite having not even finished half of my dinner, I trail him to the sink where he drops the dirty dish and turns to meet me—brown identical eyes staring back at me.

A passive expression layers on his face, and he doesn't say anything—holding this subtle glare between the crinkles of his eyes, something that screams: I am the man of the house, the patriarch, and I will not apologize.

My lips part, and I wanted to say something, but in the five seconds he gave me, I couldn't find my tongue and my words were practically hollow. My father pushes past me, making sure to bump my shoulders on his way out—harshly, might I add—and pushes through the living room, entering his living quarters.

And I can hear my heart cracking.

I drag my feet along the wooden floorboard, taking puppy-like steps to his bedroom, feeling emotionally drained and sad the entire way there. My heart feels heavy; not in the sense of peace or tranquilly, but heavy as in hollow, empty, voided.

I jangle with the lock, silently pleading to be let in. The more the seconds tick on the clock, the more I feel like I'm losing my opportunity. To do what, I don't know exactly, but I feel as if time is slipping away from me to make amends and I'm going to live my life in the wrong.

My fault. My fault. My fault.

The door cracks open and my father stands behind the oak, the same impassive face stood clear on his features. He gives me a quick once over, raising one of his brows, waiting for me to say something. I open my mouth, once more, failing to register coherent sentences—and my father attempts to slam the door close on me.

I stick my foot out, jamming the lock.

And something in me just breaks.

I burst out into tears, all the emotions I've had pent up for this situation overwhelms me, and I'm wailing to the sound of the silence. My hands immediately slip to my face, covering my moment of weakness in front of him, and I find myself repeating the same sentence over and over again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said through the gasps of my sobs, struggling to conceal the hindrance of my tears and the upcoming hiccups threatening to rise from the back of my throat. I lapse on my breathing, struggling to take in oxygen from gapes of my wailing. My lashes fan against my fingers, my tears wetting my cheeks, and I'm a complete mess standing in front of my father. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

He doesn't hold me, and that's the first thing I notice from the lack of reaction. Whenever my mother sees me in tears, her first reaction is to pull me into her embrace and comfort me with the whispers of her words and the strokes of her tender touch. When Harlow sees me in tears, he collides me in his—like we mold into the perfect sculpture, ready to be framed in a museum.

It didn't make sense, but my world was spinning. I'm so lost by the lack of contact, that I begin to sob harder—even worse than before, because I've hurt him this much. So much, that he refuses to hold me.

Sometimes, a little girl needs her father to hold her.

"Dahlia," my father sighs out of exasperation. "Stop crying. You said three words, and you're driven into tears. Stop it, I didn't raise you like this."

I'm still met with the cold air, but I'm attempting to wipe away the tears spilling from the corner of my eyes. It's not working as well, but I see the fair outline of his face through the blur of my vision and slowly making out the expression on his face.

And he just looks done.

"It took you four weeks to work up the courage to apologize to me, Dahlia," he lists, holding out four of his fingers to demonstrate. "Did it just come to you over dinner, or has this been on your mind for a while now?"

I can't breathe. Hiccups occupy my throat, blocking entry of oxygen for me to take. I'm struggling to produce any words—beside I'm sorry—because, in my head, nothing is comprehensible. The world is crashing down on me, burning in flames, and I have no time to grab a dictionary.

"I—" I can't breathe, I want to say, but my sobs clasps at my throat, unable to penetrate through. "I—" I'm crying. I'm sorry I can't speak. I can't breathe.

"Dahlia, use your words," he issues calmly, crossing his arms, and staring back at me, awaiting his answer. He doesn't look prideful in this situation, as he's done before, but he looks natural. Simple. Passive. Like this—me—have no correlation to him.

"Papi," I choke, positioning both hands on my chest as I feel my breathing begin to grow labored and my insides burn from all the emotional withdrawal. I think I just need someone to hold me and tell me it's going to be okay—that I'm forgiven. I think I seek that validation from the man in front of me. "Por favor." Please.

"Answer the question, Dahlia." He replies in English, causing more tears to fall. I couldn't find an answer within me, because I didn't have the emotional capability to respond without stumbling over my words and tears running streaks down my face. He has to understand that. "Did you or did you not think about your mistake for the past four weeks?"

"Yes," I nod frantically, just needing a reaction from him. A response that tells I could still be forgiven. "Yes, yes, yes. Si. Si."

Then, I hear him sigh out of relief.

And, finally, he holds me.

My father pulls me into his chest and wraps his solid arms around me, but it didn't feel safe. Not like it did when I was in my mother's arms or in Harlow's. It felt...filling, only because I was longing for the touch of redemption and this seems to be the only one that made sense. It didn't feel comfortable, or loving, or trusting, or caring—it just felt needed. Something to establish that I've gained the mercy of his tolerance, of his forgiveness.

And the broken pieces inside of me begin to repair itself.

"I forgive you," he mumbles into the stands of my hair, causing me to suppress the tears that are threatening to spill. "You were supposed to apologize earlier, but I forgive you."

It felt taunting—his words—but I suppressed the urge to say anything, because finally, I've gained his forgiveness. The tension in our home would cease to exist, and I could finally breathe. I could finally step outside of my bedroom, without looking over my shoulders, and my mother would no longer have to hold her breath within the proximity of the both of us. Normal, as I can say.

My father pulls back, positioning both hands on my shoulders as he meets my gaze. His brown eyes compassionate, "I love you," he said with reassurance, his brows crinkle. "You're my daughter, and I love you. You'll always be forgiven."

And I don't know why that hurt.

Because it's a genuine compliment.

But I sob even harder, and he crushes me into his chest once more.

━━━━━

MARTES
6:52 PM

Dahlia Gray

"Someone's happy today." Aysa points out, peering from behind the pages of her novel as I settle into the seat before her. She's holding a book within her hands, the cover hidden behind a book jacket that censors out the name, title, and author. It's inconspicuous, in a sense, but somewhat draws more attention.

"I am." I grin, crossing my legs over the other under the table. I lean forward, my stomach pressing against the edge of the table, and whisper, "are you reading a sex scene right now?"

Aysa blushes, and she removes one hand off the grip of her book to swat me, causing laughter to erupt from the back of my throat. I immediately pull back, avoiding the consequences of her reach, and she rolls her eyes—withdrawing her claws. Her hand returned around the book.

"Are you going to evaluate why you're so happy today?" She prompts, flipping the page to the next as she spares a single-second glance in my direction. "Your face is also puffy."

My hands immediately reach for my face, grazing my touch around my eyes and my cheeks—which are, relatively, puffier than usual. It was probably from the flood of tears last night, and I wasn't that surprised to hear that it overstayed its welcome.

No wonder Harlow was looking at me in class today.

"I made up with my dad," I explain simply, not wanting to dwell too much on the story. It passed, we're okay now. "There may or may not have been some tears."

She goes a bit rigid, pulling her shoulders. "What happened this time?" Aysa asks, still splitting her attention from the book to me, sparing a glance after every couple of sentences.

"Nothing too bad," I pause, "or, I mean, it was, but like—we made up."

Aysa raises a perfect brow at me, losing interest in her novel. "Meaning?"

I sigh, not liking the memory it brought, but nonetheless, rehashing the issue that happened a month ago. I told her about how I forgot to do my part in helping my father file his documents—my fault, truly—and how he barged into my room and started yelling obscenities, causing me to break down. Of course, I convinced myself that it was all in the moment, and after I settled down, I knew I was in the wrong and I apologized.

She asked me if he cried along with me.

I told her no.

Aysa has since placed down the book, dog-eared the page, and gives me her complete undivided attention. After I finish explaining the entire situation, she just stares at me, her brows creasing in concentration.

I couldn't read the thoughts pondering in her head, and that, itself, was scaring me.

"Tell me again," she commands, her speech neutral but her eyes are hard.

I groan, "why?"

"Dahlia," she commands solemnly, like a parent to a child, "I want to hear it again. Everything, from top to bottom, and don't leave out any details."

I wanted to groan and complain again, but from the look in her eyes, I rather not risk it. A bit frustrated about being forced to reiterate my story, but nonetheless, I retold the details of the story a second time. This time, I mentioned more—about how my father consistently asked me how long I've been pondering on the incident and him not embracing me until I answered.

I don't know how we got here, but we ended up diving deeper than the conversation before us, leading back to the first time he ever made me cry. It hurts, revisiting that memory, but I told it in full details. Then, I told the next one, and the next one, and there were so many occurrences that I began to lose my breath.

When I finish the last story—the event that happened before this most recent one—Aysa is quiet.

We just sat in total silence.

"Aysa," I said, after taking a sip of water. Her gaze meets with mine. "What are you thinking about?"

She swallows, "you and your dad's situation doesn't sound right."

I furrow my brows together, "what are you talking about?"

Aysa takes in a sharp breath, "I mean," she emphasizes, her voice growing more daunting. "Your relationship with your father. It sounds abusive. Emotionally abusive."

I completely froze.

I never heard that term before, and it felt frightening. I've always considered abuse to be physical—classified as the one in the media highlights, where the husband hits the wife, which results in her leaving him.

But I've never heard of emotional abuse, as if that was a real thing.

"He's not..." I stutter, my mind growing hazy, "he's not abusive."

I don't know why I'm defending him, but it felt wrong to call him an abusive father when he's not. Sure, he hurt my feelings and made me contemplate my worth, but he never officially hurt me. He's never striked at me, or made me bruise black-and-blue. He just...he acts like that. That's normal.

"Kid..."

"No, I'm serious," I emphasize, my voice growing passionate. "My dad never hurt me. How can he be abusive?"

"He's emotionally abusive, Dahlia, that's the difference." Aysa points out, crossing her arms over her chest. "That's not normal. All of those stories you told me, where he hurt you, he may not have laid a physical hand on you—but he hurt you. He hurt your mind, your heart, your emotions. That is still abuse."

"It's not abuse," I hear myself countering, like an out-of-body experience and someone has taken over me. I always wanted to leave my father—I still do—but the reason has always been because we never got along. He never understood me, or my mother. He hurt my feelings. That's not a valid excuse to call someone abusive—everyone hurts everyone's feelings.

"Yes, it is."

"So, you're telling me, if I called you a couple of mean names and said some really messed-up stuff, I'm emotionally abusive to you?" I question, before adding, "even if it's in the heat of an argument?"

"There's a difference between an argument and emotional abuse. Sometimes, those things can intersect, but most times, you know where to draw the line. In arguments, you both respect each other enough to know your boundaries. What to say and what not to say. In arguments, you're disagreeing about a certain topic, not about each other," Aysa explains. "In emotional abuse, there's no respect. At least, for one over the other. There's no acknowledgement of the other person's feelings and how their words could affect that person. It's completely from narcissism. It's meant to hurt you."

"So, to answer your question, if you called me mean names or said some really fucked-up shit, you would be border-lining emotional abuse if it gets to me. Because Dahlia, I have respect for you, and I care for you. I would never—even in the heat of the moment—call you something that I know would hurt you intentionally."

I'm trying to grapple with this definition, but my mind stopped working. Everything feels blurred, wrong, and doesn't make sense.

Emotional abuse. I never heard of that before—so how can I even be sure that's the right wrong to describe my situation. On one hand, it makes me feel like I can breathe, knowing there's a term out there that doesn't make me feel like I'm going crazy and knowing other people might feel the same—but on the other, it makes me feel like I'm branding something terrible on my father, something I can't take back.

"He's not abusive," I repeat, like a broken stereo. Aysa sighs out of exasperation. I continue, "he's just my dad. That's how parents work sometimes—they get frustrated and sometimes they need to let their frustration out on the first thing that ticks at them. Most times, that's me."

Gosh, I sound like my mother.

"That's not normal." Aysa emphasizes, her voice growing more desperate. "When my aabo gets upset, he goes into a room and calms himself down. He reads a book, he communicates with my mom about his problems and sometimes, he comes into my room and asks to sit with me. He has never yelled at me about his problems. He has never emotionally hurt me when he's frustrated. He never did the things your dad did."

"But that's different."

Her brows pull together, "how the fuck is that different?"

"Our culture. You're Somali. I'm Venezuelan. It's different."

Aysa eyes me, like I've grown two heads. She leans over the table, grabs both my hands in hers, "Dahlia. Your dad is white."

I don't see the issue here. "So?"

"He's a white man, raised in American culture, and he lives by American standards. He doesn't give two shits about being Venezuelan, or acting like a Venezuelan. He's white."

I pull away from her, still defensive about her claims. "So? My mom and I are Venezuelans. I was born and raised by a conservative Venezuelan family, so we live differently. It's normal. It's just how it is. It's in our culture."

And it was as if my statement finally made her snap. "YOUR CULTURE SHOULDN'T HURT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH!"

And everything just stops.

Aysa is breathing raggedly, her chest rising and falling, and she's staring at the surface of the table, regaining emotional control. My eyes are wide, staring at her, not knowing what to say or do after that proclamation.

Your culture shouldn't hurt your mental health.

"Culture is defined as societal customs, traditions, and are made from the people." She raises her gaze to meet mine once more, her eyes oozing compassion. "And people are consistently evolving. Who I am today does not determine who I will be tomorrow."

"Culture stems from the stability of a certain group who wishes to remain a custom order. That's why there's different standards of living in Somalia versus the States, or South Korea versus Italy. Everyone lives differently according to how their society has progressed there and defines the dos-and-don'ts of that country."

Aysa softens considerably, "but culture shouldn't hurt you. Culture isn't you. Culture shouldn't define who you are and who you follow as a person—that's entirely up to you."

"Aysa..."

"No, let me finish," she holds up her hand, shaking her head. "What you don't seem to comprehend is: culture is something you follow, not something that follows you.