Isla pov
Why should I acknowledge someone who never wanted me? Someone who never cared? Someone who, since the day I was born, never showed me an ounce of love— why should I call that kind of man my father?
I remember it clearly. I was just seven the first time he laid a hand on me. A small, clueless child who had never even seen a picture of her mother because, according to him, I didn’t deserve to. My mother had died giving birth to me, and for that, he blamed me entirely. He said I was the reason she was gone, so he hid every picture of her away in his room, keeping her memory out of my reach.
It was my birthday that day. But like every other year, my father wasn’t home. Even as a child, I understood why. My birthday was also the day my mother died. That was why I was never allowed t
