“Healing from Bitterness, One Step at a Time.”

My father was absent due to addiction, the street life. His mother—my grandmother—raised me. She became the steady hands that held me when my parents could not. My father was more of a distant shadow than a daily presence. I saw him seldomly, but when I did, my face would glow.

Maybe it was because children naturally long for their parents, no matter how broken the circumstances. Maybe it was because he came bearing gifts—small tokens that felt like love to a child trying to make sense of absence. Or maybe it was because, despite everything, he was the only parent who showed up at all… even if only for moments.

Those moments taught me something complicated: how to celebrate crumbs when your soul is starving for a meal.

I learned how to confuse presence with love, gifts with affection, and moments with commitment. I became grateful for “just enough” because I didn’t know I deserved more. I smiled through the inconsistency because a child will cling to whatever pieces of love they can get.

But beneath that glowing face was a little girl silently asking, “Why am I not enough for you to stay?”

That question followed me into adulthood. It shaped my relationships, my expectations, and even my understanding of my own worth. It planted seeds of bitterness—not always loud, but buried deep enough to grow roots.

And bitterness is deceptive. It tells you it’s protecting you, when really it’s poisoning you. It hardens the places that were meant to stay tender. It rots the hand that holds it.

Healing began when I stopped pretending my father’s absence didn’t hurt. Healing began when I allowed myself to grieve the parent I deserved but did not have. Healing began when I understood that his inability to show up had nothing to do with my worth and everything to do with his own brokenness.

I can honor the little girl who lit up when she saw her father—and still tell her the truth:

You deserved more than occasional appearances.

You deserved consistency.

You deserved protection.

You deserved love that stayed.

Next: Part Three: Becoming What Hurt Me

At an age when I should have been learning how to play, I was instead learning how to survive change. I didn’t understand courtrooms or legal terms, but I understood loss. I understood separation. I understood that life had shifted in a way I couldn’t explain, only feel.

My grandmother became my safe place. My protector. My anchor. She stepped in when everything else fell apart, carrying responsibilities that were never meant to be hers — and she did it with strength, sacrifice, and unwavering love. Because of her, I had stability. Because of her, I had a chance.

Still, the absence lingered.

There were questions no one had answers for. And even when answers came, they didn’t bring comfort — only more layers of confusion. How do you love someone you barely know? How do you miss someone who was never truly there? How do you grieve a relationship that never had time to exist?

I carried those questions quietly.

Growing up, I learned that addiction is not just a personal battle — it is a family storm. It touches everyone in its path. It reshapes homes, childhoods, futures. And often, it leaves behind children who grow up trying to understand what was never their fault.

But even in that pain, compassion began to grow.

Because brokenness does not mean absence of love. Sometimes it simply means the battle was bigger than the person.

And that truth — as painful as it is — became part of my healing.

I disappeared —

not because I stopped loving,

but because I was losing myself.

I went silent to hear my own heartbeat again.

I stepped back to rebuild what life tried to destroy.

They called it distance.

They called it change.

They called it abandonment.

But it was survival.

I needed space to remember who I was

before the pain named me.

Before the trauma defined me.

Before exhaustion became my identity.

And when I healed —

when my soul stood tall again —

I looked around

and realized

many were gone.

Not because I failed them,

but because growth rearranges alignment.

Some were assigned to the struggle,

not the breakthrough.

So I walk forward —

not bitter,

not broken,

but free.

In a world of secrets deep and old,

The Sins of the Mother and Father unfold.

A tale of love and betrayal’s stain,

Bound by choices that cause much pain.

In the first book, dark and cold,

The Mother’s sin, a story told.

Her past haunts her, shadows cast,

Her secrets buried, but they’ll last.

The Father, too, carries his own weight,

Regrets and errors, sealed by fate.

His heart torn by what he’s done,

Searching for redemption, yet none.

The second book, the truth revealed,

Families shattered, wounds unhealed.

The sins of the parents, passed to kin,

A cycle of pain that traps within.

But in the final book, a chance for light,

Forgiveness blooms, wrongs made right.

The children break the chains of old,

And write their stories, bold and untold.

So let us learn from this trilogy,

That our actions ripple endlessly.

May we face our sins with grace and rue,

And find redemption, pure and true.

In a world of secrets deep and old,

The Sins of the Mother and Father unfold.

A tale of love and betrayal’s stain,

Bound by choices that cause much pain.

In the first book, dark and cold,

The Mother’s sin, a story told.

Her past haunts her, shadows cast,

Her secrets buried, but they’ll last.

The Father, too, carries his own weight,

Regrets and errors, sealed by fate.

His heart torn by what he’s done,

Searching for redemption, yet none.

The second book, the truth revealed,

Families shattered, wounds unhealed.

The sins of the parents, passed to kin,

A cycle of pain that traps within.

But in the final book, a chance for light,

Forgiveness blooms, wrongs made right.

The children break the chains of old,

And write their stories, bold and untold.

So let us learn from this trilogy,

That our actions ripple endlessly.

May we face our sins with grace and rue,

And find redemption, pure and true.