I Made My Father Cry

The Power Of Words

Photo by Tom Pumford on Unsplash

I remember as a young child writing in my diary. Usually they were full of angst or pure love that I held for a boy in my class. But what I remember the most about that diary was the day I left it out after having a fight with my mom and she read what I wrote.

I had left my room where I was grounded to, and snuck off into the bathroom. Not that I needed to go, but just to show her that I was not going to do what she said.

I remember returning to my room and seeing her sitting on my bed. I don’t remember where the diary was because the look of pure hurt was etched on her face.

Her eyes were full of tears and I just stood there, staring at her. I knew deep down she had read what I wrote and I immediately felt horrible.

“Get a piece of paper please.”

At that point, I didn’t dare disobey her. I retrieved a paper and pen and sat on the bed next to her.

“If you are going to write mean words about me, you should at least spell them correctly. Bitch is spelled B-I-T-C-H. Write it down. Next time don’t forget the T.”

With nothing else said, she walked out of my room pulling the door silently shut behind her.