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My Father’s Never Told Me He Loved Me

My Father’s Never Told Me He Loved Me


How I Learned the Meaning of Unconditional Love

At first I thought that he didn’t hear me. I mean, I wasn’t so blatant about saying it myself. I would usually mutter it at the end of conversations.

i love you…

Timid, light, like I was verbally writing it in small letters. My father’s response was always the same.


Or some verbally indecipherable utterance that I won’t attempt to put into words. He always seemed to react to my confession like he was preoccupied, like he was busying doing a Rubik’s cube or watching the latest episode of Empire.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

That type of shit.

It made me feel small, silly, and stupid, like I was some jump off that he had met at the club, who was catching too many feelings.

Like he was saying:

“Hey, I know I fucked your moms, married her, and then we had you, but let’s not get too serious about this shit.”

So I gave him the silent treatment. Have you ever had a woman do that to you?

“What’s wrong?”


And waited for him to notice. As of this moment I’ve been waiting all of my life.

Then I realized something.

Maybe he just wasn’t the type of guy to say something like that, even to his own son, or maybe he didn’t really love me, but that didn’t change the way I felt about him.

I love him. He is my father and, regardless of his faults, nothing will ever change that.

So I keep telling him.

Boys Don’t Cry

Boys Don’t Cry

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