Dad, I don’t know how to tell you, so I’ll just write it down here. I may never give it to you, but if one day you happen to find this book, please believe me.

Every morning, when Dad was busy at work, my stepmother would wake me up. The chill of the early hours would seep through the thin walls of our home, and I would shiver on the floor before she appeared. My throat was dry and parched, yet Mom never gave me a proper drink. She handed me a cup of milk, a spoonful floating like a thin shadow in the watery liquid. I drank it quickly, hoping to feel full, but the emptiness inside only echoed louder.

Then Dad would ask, “Have you had breakfast yet?” Mom’s practiced smile would appear: “He already ate, I took care of everything.” Dad’s eyes softened, relieved, while I trudged off to school with a hollow stomach, every step heavy with hunger and silent humiliation.

If I dared to disobey, Dad, Mom would drag me into the cold, dimly lit room. The door would close behind us, and I would be trapped within four unyielding walls. She forced me to slap my own mouth, over and over. Every time tears streamed down my face, she would say coldly: “Cry all you want. Maybe Dad will hear. Let’s see if you choose him or your life.” My heart would pound like a drum. I was terrified.

But Dad, it didn’t end there. The nights were even worse. She yelled, “You don’t deserve your bed. You don’t deserve a pillow or blanket.” She laid me out on the hallway mat, the floor icy beneath my small body. The wind whistled through the cracks, sending shivers up my spine. My stomach twisted and growled in agony, while in the other room, Dad and Mom slept soundly, oblivious to the storm of misery just outside.

Many times, I wanted to run into your arms, Dad, to tell you everything, to ask for safety. But your stepmother’s eyes, sharp and fierce, froze me in place. I feared that if I told you, tomorrow would be far worse. And so I suffered in silence, my small body curled up against the cold, my mind replaying every cruel word and every slap.

I missed my mother, Dad. I longed for the comfort of her arms, for a warm meal, a glass of water that quenched my thirst, a voice that told me everything would be okay. But those simple things were as distant as the stars.

School was no refuge. Every bite of my packed lunch, every sip of water I rationed, reminded me of home. My classmates laughed, unaware of my hunger. Their parents packed full, warm meals; my own stomach twisted with envy and shame. I would watch from afar, trying not to cry, trying not to draw attention. My stepmother’s shadow followed me, not physically, but in the fear and vigilance that never left me.

At night, Dad, I lay beside my own small comforts, imagining what it would be like to have a mother’s embrace. I whispered your name, hoping somehow, you would hear me. I traced memories of my real mother—her gentle hands, the warmth of her smile—longing for what I lost. My pillow soaked in tears became my silent companion, my heart heavy with the knowledge that those moments were gone, perhaps forever.

Then came the punishment nights. She would scream, dragging me from bed. “You are unworthy. You will learn respect the hard way.” Her hands, though smaller than mine, hit with a precision that made my cheek sting for hours. I would cry, Dad. I would pray for someone, anyone, to intervene. Yet the house was silent, except for her voice and my sobs.

The hallway at night became my prison and my cold bed. The air smelled of dust and decay, the moonlight painting shadows across my face, highlighting every tear. I would curl up on the floor, hugging my stomach to ease the hunger that gnawed relentlessly. Outside, the wind screamed, rattling the thin windows, and I imagined it was the world crying with me.

I longed, Dad, for just one hand to rest on my head, one soft word of comfort. I would dream of your arms around me, your voice whispering, “It’s okay, I’m here.” But the dream would fade with the morning light, and I faced her anew, the cup of watery milk, the slap, the endless cold.

Even my own thoughts became a battlefield. I questioned myself constantly. Was I weak? Was I unworthy of love? The cruelty made me shrink, made me smaller than my own shadow. I learned to measure my existence in whispers and silences, to survive each day like a ghost in my own home.

Dad, the worst moments were when I imagined telling you. My mind raced with every scenario: you’d be angry, you’d be shocked, you’d protect me. Yet, there was that other fear—the fear of retaliation. I would imagine stepmother’s wrath, more severe than ever, if I dared speak. And so, I remained quiet, carrying a weight that no child should bear.

And yet, Dad, even in the darkest corridors of fear, I clung to hope. I remembered my mother’s face, the warmth of her embrace, the sound of her laughter. I believed, even in the depths of despair, that one day someone would see the truth. That one day, I might escape this endless cycle of hunger, cold, and fear.

I’ve written all of this not to complain, Dad, but to let you know: every day was a struggle, every small act of courage a victory. I tried to be brave, even when my body trembled, even when my heart screamed. I tried to survive, hoping that someday, the love and warmth I longed for would find me.

If you ever read this, Dad, please believe me: I have tried. I have tried to be strong. I have tried to hold onto hope. And even now, in the shadows of fear and silence, I still cling to the possibility that love, that care, that protection, exists—perhaps in your arms, perhaps in the day when I am finally free.