They say daughters are closest to their fathers.
And Siya once believed that too.
There was a time—long before the bruises, the shouting, the smell of alcohol—when her father was her favorite person in the world.
He used to lift her on his shoulders, dance to old Bollywood songs, and call her:
"Meri Rajkumari."
(My princess.)
She used to run into his arms after school, telling him how she came first in class.
He would kiss her forehead and say,
"Tujhse hi meri izzat hai, beta."
(You are my pride, my respect.)
That father?
That man?
He vanished.
And in his place came someone unrecognizable.
A stranger in his skin.
Worse than a stranger—a threat.
🥃 The Transformation
Siya still remembered the first time it happened.
He came home late.
Drunk. Eyes bloodshot.
Slurring his words.
Yelling at her mother for burning the dal.
She thought it was a bad day.
She thought it would pass.
But it didn't.
It became a pattern.
Then a habit.
Then a lifestyle.
"Jab woh peeta hai na... woh insaan hi nahi lagta."
(When he drinks... he doesn't even seem human.)
Worse than an animal.
Because even animals protect their own.
He would scream, hurl things, raise his hand—not just at Siya's mother—but at Siya too.
But here's what hurt more…
The next morning?
He'd act like nothing happened.
Make chai.
Ask her if she wanted toast.
Tell her how proud he was that she topped her class again.
He'd say:
"Main toh tujhe sabse zyada pyaar karta hoon."
(I love you the most.)
She would stare at him, holding her bruised arm.
Thinking: Do you even remember what you did last night?
But he'd smile.
As if she was the one imagining things.
"Tu hi toh meri shaan hai."
(You're my pride.)
"Pichli raat? Arre tu toh bohot ziddi hai, thoda dant diya toh kya hua?"
(Last night? Oh, you're stubborn, so I scolded you a bit—so what?)
🎭 The Manipulation
That was the worst part.
When he was sober—he was sweet.
Talked softly. Brought groceries. Sat beside Siya asking about her studies. Told her how he wanted to see her become something big.
"Astronaut banegi tu... ya scientist?"
(You'll be an astronaut, right? Or a scientist?)
And part of her—a tiny part—still wanted to believe him.
Still wanted her Papa back.
But her scars didn't lie.
Her silence didn't lie.
The fear in her mother's eyes didn't lie.
She'd whisper to herself:
"Why is it that the man who tells me I'm his world also makes me feel like I'm worthless?"
"Why does love feel like a trap when it comes from him?"
💔 The Confusion No One Talks About
People around her used to say:
"Baap hai tera. Thoda gussa toh chalega."
(He's your father. A little anger is acceptable.)
"Pyaar karta hai andar se. Bas tareeka galat hai."
(He loves you deep down. He just shows it wrong.)
But Siya knew better now.
Love that hurts again and again isn't love.
It's manipulation.
It's gaslighting.
It's trauma in disguise.
She sat by the window that night, journaling in her phone:
"He was the first man I ever loved.
But now he's the reason I struggle to trust love."
"He broke me in places I'm still trying to rebuild.
And the worst part?
He still calls me his princess."
🥀 Still... A Daughter's Heart
And yet…
When he coughed late at night.
Or when he looked tired and old.
Or when he held his chest dramatically saying, "Mujhe kuch ho gaya toh?"
A piece of Siya's heart still trembled.
Because despite everything…
She still wished he would become the father she once knew.