That night, something inside me snapped. I packed a bag, quietly, tears streaming down my face not from sadness, but from a profound, burning indignation. I wrote a note, short and sharp, probably hurtful. It said I couldn’t live like this anymore. That I deserved to be trusted, to be respected. I slipped out, into the pre-dawn chill, and never looked back. I crashed on couches, worked odd jobs, and built a life, brick by painful brick. It was hard, unimaginably hard, but it was mine. And for the first time, I felt an exhilarating, albeit terrifying, sense of self-respect.
Years turned into a decade. The distance between us grew into an unbridgeable chasm. Calls went unanswered, letters returned unopened. They never tried to understand me, I’d tell myself, reinforcing the narrative that I was justified in my choice. They valued rules more than our relationship. They valued control more than my happiness. They valued their own authority more than my respect for them. It was a painful truth, but it was my truth, the one that allowed me to move forward without crumbling. I built a successful career, found love, made a home. It was everything I’d fought for, everything I believed I’d been denied. Everything, except reconciliation. And a part of me, a small, stubborn part, always wondered if they ever regretted choosing rules over a child.
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