Eternal Ephemerals

My father

There was a rhythm to her father's footsteps—a certain heaviness that meant he was in a mood. Today, she heard that familiar sound as he walked across the kitchen floor, and her stomach tightened in anticipation. The glass she had dropped was still in pieces on the floor, and she stood frozen, waiting. It had slipped from her hands, shattering across the tiles, a mistake anyone could make. But the approaching footsteps, and the sudden silence that followed, told her that her father didn't see it that way.

"You don't value the work I do," he said, his voice sharp, each word like a sharp edge cutting through the quiet. "You're careless. Do you know how hard I work to keep everything together here?"

She had heard these words before, countless times, and she knew what would come next. The storm had a pattern—anger swelling, accusations following, his words seeking out the softest, most vulnerable parts of her. She wanted to explain, to tell him it was just a glass, that accidents happened, that she hadn't meant to let it fall. But she knew better. Reason had no place here. Once his anger took hold, it was like a fire—uncontrollable, consuming, leaving nothing untouched.

"You all think you can just break things and move on," he continued, his voice growing louder, more insistent. "Without considering how much effort goes into it all."

She kept her gaze lowered, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the edge of the counter. She could feel the frustration rising inside her, hot and bitter. She wanted to tell him that it wasn't fair, that he was making too much of something so small. She wanted to remind him of the other day—when it had been his turn to knock something over.

Just last week, he had knocked over a potted plant in the living room, the clay pot shattering, soil spilling everywhere. She had watched as he stood there, frustrated but silent, and she had gone over, helped clean up, reassured him that it was fine. "See? We don't get upset over things like this," she had said, her voice gentle, hoping maybe, just maybe, it would make a difference. And he had frowned, a darkness clouding his eyes, the room growing colder with the distance between them.

He had taken offense. Somehow, he always did. It was as if his pride couldn't bear to be reminded that others could be more patient, more forgiving.

As she knelt down now to pick up the shards of glass, her heart ached, a mixture of sadness and resentment bubbling beneath the surface. Why did it have to be like this? She didn't hate her father—she could never hate him. But moments like these, she found herself almost wishing she could. Wishing she could summon the same anger, the same fire, to defend herself. To shout back that it was just a glass. To remind him of all the times they had forgiven his mistakes, brushed off his errors without judgment.

But the truth was, she didn't want to be like him. She didn't want to lose herself in anger the way he did. She had seen it too many times—the way her mother's eyes would grow distant, the way her younger brother would look down at his feet when their father's voice filled the house. She had watched them all navigate his moods, careful and cautious, tiptoeing around the edges of his temper. And she had vowed, in the quiet of her own heart, that she wouldn't be that way. She wouldn't let anger define her relationships. She wouldn't let her loved ones feel small or scared because of her words.

There were moments, though, that made everything worth it. Moments when her father was different—softer, kinder, the man she admired with all her heart. When they worked together in the garden, their hands covered in dirt, their mutual love for plants creating a space where no anger could enter. Those were the times she held onto. He would talk about the flowers he had grown when he was young, the way his mother had taught him to care for them, and she would listen, absorbing every story, every memory. They didn't need words to connect in those moments. Just the rustle of leaves, the warmth of the sun, and the quiet satisfaction of creating something beautiful together.

And there were the nights they would sit on the porch, discussing politics, philosophy, sports—anything that caught their interest. Her father loved to talk, to lecture, to share his opinions, and she would listen, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with frustration. "Do this, do that," he would say, giving her advice that he often didn't follow himself. But there was wisdom in his words, even when he didn't live up to them. He wanted her to be better, to avoid the mistakes he had made, and in those moments, she could see his love for her—his desire for her to have a life less burdened by the flaws he carried.

Later that night, after the glass had been cleaned up and the kitchen was quiet again, her father came to her room. He stood in the doorway, his expression softened, the harshness from earlier faded into something closer to regret. "I shouldn't have yelled," he said, his voice low, almost gruff. It wasn't quite an apology, but it was as close as he could get. And she looked up at him, feeling the knot in her chest loosen just a little.

"It's okay," she said, and this time, she meant it. Because she knew that, despite everything, he was trying. In his own imperfect way, he loved her deeply, fiercely. He was flawed, but he was still her father. He was the man who had taught her to ride a bike, running beside her until she found her balance. The man who had carried her on his shoulders when she was small, letting her see the world from up high. The man who had stayed up with her when she was sick, holding her hand, his voice soothing her fears.

She loved him, even when he made mistakes, even when his anger hurt her. And she knew that love wasn't about perfection. It was about seeing someone fully—seeing their flaws, their cracks, their weaknesses—and choosing to stay, to forgive, to keep loving them anyway.

She watched as he turned and walked away, and she let out a long, slow breath. She knew she would take what was good in him—his strength, his passion, his determination—and she would leave behind the rest. She would learn from his mistakes, be a little more patient, a little gentler. She would make sure her love never felt like a weight on the people she cared about.

And maybe, that was his greatest gift to her—the lesson hidden beneath all the lectures, all the anger, all the moments of tenderness. To grow beyond him, to take what he had given her and build something better. He was her father, her strength, the man who motivated her when she was down. He was her first hero, flawed and human, and she knew she would always carry a part of him with her.

She just hoped that, in the end, she could be the version of him that he had always wanted to be, the version that lived not in anger but in love, in kindness, and in growth.