I don’t remember the first time I stopped running into my dad’s arms.
There wasn’t a single fight or one awful day — just a slow fading.
One day, I loved him.
Then I wasn’t sure.
And then, somehow, I was afraid of him.
I was eight.
My mom never said, “Don’t love him.”
She didn’t have to.
She’d sigh when his name came up, roll her eyes when he called, hang up and whisper under her breath.
When I brought home the drawing I made for him, she left it on the counter until it disappeared.
She’d say things like, “He’s busy. He doesn’t really care about those things.”
Or, “I know you want to go, but it’s not safe right now.”
And I believed her.
The Growing Distance
At first, I missed him.
Then, missing him started to feel disloyal.
I’d see him at exchanges — standing by his car, smiling, nervous.
I remember thinking his face looked guilty.
Later I realized it was just pain.
He’d bring my favorite snacks, try to talk about school, ask about my friends.
I’d shrug, give short answers.
I didn’t know how to act anymore.
Every word felt like a test.
He was patient at first.
Then he started crying.
That’s when I pulled away for good.
I didn’t want to see him cry.
I didn’t want to feel guilty for something I didn’t understand.
The Empty Years
When I was a teenager, I told people my dad “left.”
That was the story I’d grown up with — that he didn’t try, that he gave up.
I even believed it.
It made me feel safer to think that he didn’t want me than to admit I’d been turned against him.
But deep down, something never felt right.
There were photos I wasn’t supposed to look at — vacations, birthdays, bedtime stories — proof that he had been there.
I started to wonder: Why did everyone stop talking about the good memories?
Why did it hurt so much to think about him if he was the one who didn’t care?
The Moment of Truth
When I turned twenty, I reached out.
I don’t even remember why.
Maybe curiosity, maybe guilt.
He answered on the first ring.
He didn’t sound angry.
He just said, “Hi, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.”
And I broke.
Every wall I’d built crumbled.
Every story I’d been told collapsed under the sound of his voice.
That was when I understood what had really happened.
My childhood had been rewritten, not by lies big enough to see, but by hundreds of small ones whispered over time.
That’s what alienation is.
It’s not one act of hate — it’s a thousand quiet betrayals of love.
The Damage That Lingers
Rebuilding hasn’t been easy.
I love my mom. I love my dad.
But loving both feels like standing in two different worlds that never touch.
Therapists call what I went through “identity injury.”
When you’re told that one parent is bad, unsafe, or unlovable, you start to believe that half of you is too.
I struggle with trust.
With boundaries.
With believing that love doesn’t always come with a hidden condition.
And I see it in other kids too — friends who grew up believing one parent didn’t care, only to learn the truth too late.
Some never reconcile. Some never want to.
The scars are invisible, but they run deep.
What I Wish Adults Knew
Alienation isn’t just conflict — it’s emotional abuse.
It teaches kids that love is conditional, that truth is negotiable, and that loyalty means silencing your own heart.
If you’re a parent caught in this battle: keep showing up. Even when your child turns away, keep a door open.
If you’re a judge, lawyer, or therapist: please learn to see this for what it is — not drama, not “high conflict,” but harm that rewires a child’s sense of safety.
If you’re a co-parent tempted to twist a story to your advantage: stop. The victory will feel hollow when your child grows up and asks, “Why did you make me hate someone who loved me?”
A Note to My Younger Self
I wish I could tell that eight-year-old that her dad never stopped loving her.
That he waited through birthdays and missed milestones, hoping she’d remember.
That the fear she felt wasn’t real — it was borrowed.
I can’t get those years back.
But I can speak now, so maybe another child doesn’t have to lose theirs.
Because love shouldn’t have to survive sabotage.
And no child should have to grow up between two worlds, learning to hate half of who they are.
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