For most of my childhood, I carried a quiet resentment toward my father. He was the only parent I had, working long hours to keep us afloat, yet our life always felt defined by what we didn’t have. We lived carefully, counting bills, stretching groceries, and saying no to things other families seemed to afford without effort. At school, I learned how to smile through envy as classmates talked about vacations, new clothes, and shiny gadgets. I told myself I didn’t care, but the truth was heavier than I wanted to admit. One afternoon, after a friend excitedly showed me his brand-new tablet, that weight finally broke through. I went home angry and said things I can never take back, accusing my father of failing me because he couldn’t give me more. I saw the hurt flicker across his face before he buried it, and instead of apologizing, I let my pride harden into silence.
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