Loving my Daddy

When your young you don’t know toxicity in your family, or the meaning of toxic love

I loved my daddy
with a child’s whole heart,
the kind that doesn’t question shadows
when they fall across the room.

To me, you were laughter and lessons,
a voice I trusted,
a presence I leaned into
without knowing it leaned back unevenly.
Love made excuses
before I ever learned the word why.

I didn’t see the sharp edges then—
only the way you filled space,
only the pride I felt saying your name,
only the hope that bloomed
every time you looked my way.

Toxic is a word
that came later,
after time had softened the noise
and distance gave me clarity.
While you were alive,
you were just Daddy—
human, complicated,
someone I loved without conditions
or defenses.

I mistook survival for normal,
confusion for loyalty,
and silence for peace.
Love, after all,
doesn’t come with warning labels
when it’s all you know.

Now I grieve two things at once:
the man I loved
and the truth I couldn’t see.
Not with anger—
but with understanding
that love can be real
and still not be safe.

You are gone,
and so is the illusion.
But the love was never a lie—
only incomplete.

I forgive myself
for loving you fully
before I knew better.
That love
was innocent.
And I will not shame it.