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i remember the sound of the car door unlocking while we were still moving.

not slowing down.

not parked.

moving.

i remember the wind swallowing the inside of the car and my chest going hollow. i remember the seatbelt cutting into my collarbone because i leaned forward without thinking. i remember realizing, in a split second, that you valued whatever you were feeling more than staying alive for me.

i remember the bathtub.

the smell first. iron and alcohol. humid air thick in my throat. the water wasn't pink. it was red. cloudy and wrong. you were slumped there like a body in a crime scene and i stood there frozen, trying to understand if you were going to die in front of me.

children are not supposed to calculate mortality in bathrooms.

i remember the quiet after chaos. the way the house would hold its breath.

and then, you yelling at me for painting my nails.

my hands still sticky with cheap polish. the chemical smell sharp and sweet. your voice heavy with judgment. like i was the reckless one.

i remember kneeling in front of you, pulling your boots off after work. the leather smelled like outside and sweat and freshly cut wood. the laces were always tight. my fingers small and clumsy but proud. i thought i was taking care of you. i thought that meant youd stay.

i remember the sound of potatoes hitting a hot pan. hashbrowns crackling. more bacon? i thought you were magic.

i remember bees tangling in my hair. the vibration against my scalp. my screaming tearing out of me without permission. and you running. fast. immediate. your hands steady. your voice firm. “it's okay. i've got you.”

and i believed you.

that's what makes it worse.

i remember the big house. sunlight stretching across clean floors. space. possibility. i still dream about it. sometimes i wake up and for a second i'm there again. and then i'm not. i am haunted by the idea that better things don't last. that they evaporate. that if i step into something beautiful it will collapse under me.

i remember burger king wrappers crumpling in my lap while mom cried somewhere else. i remember fluorescent lights and salt on my fingers and pretending this was a normal family moment.

i remember the women's shelter. the smell of donated blankets. the thin mattresses. the way everyone whispered at night. i remember knowing we were there because you scared us.

oregon felt like wet air and pine trees and hope. it felt like maybe this time you would fight.

you didn't.

you chose what was easy again.

you left again.

now you live somewhere that requires a passport to see you. and you decided aa was stupid. and i'm left trying to understand how pride/feeding your addiction can matter more than your child.

i was hurt. and i replay it in my head sometimes like a sick alternate timeline. if you had been sober. if you had been present. if you had been solid. would i have been watched more closely? protected sooner? believed faster?

i don't know.

but i know what it feels like to grow up without a shield.

when you cry now, when your voice cracks under the weight of guilt, i feel my chest harden.

you were my safety and my threat at the same time.

that splits something in a child.

happy birthday, dad.