Sunday, August 9, 2026
I went to lunch with my dad.
To be honest, I didn’t really go for him. I went more for my siblings, for the chance to see them and spend some time together. I’m super attached to my sister, Isabella. She’s married now and lives in the same house as my dad.
The image I have of my dad is of a man who’s always busy, strict, and a disciplinarian. From what I know, his own father was the same way—maybe even harsher. I think he grew up believing that was the right way to be a father. Like his job was to shape us, not nurture us. Like showing affection was a weakness. He never showed any warmth, and I don’t remember any hugs. There were never those moments where he’d sit next to me and ask how I was doing, how things were at school, or what was going on in my head. Thinking about it, he doesn’t even know what my favorite food is.
I’ve always been kind of a nerd. I got the best grades in class and worked my ass off. I remember one time I showed him my report card. I was excited, proud of myself because I’d gotten a bunch of 9s and 10s. But the response I got was simple and crushing:
“You didn’t do anything more than your duty.”
I still remember the frustration I felt in that moment. I just wanted some recognition. I wanted to hear a “congrats” or “I’m proud of you.” Most of the time he talked to me, it was to yell. He’d yell because I stayed up late and ended up late for school. He’d yell because I was barely ever home. He’d yell about the credit card charges—and that hit both me and Isabella, since we shared the same card.
When the fights happened, I’d raise my voice because I didn’t agree and slam my bedroom door so I wouldn’t have to keep listening to the complaints. In those moments, he’d always say he’d never have done that to his own father. He’d talk about how his dad never let him raise his voice. How he’d get the belt if he even tried.
I remember one time he hit my legs with a belt. I was jumping around, screaming, trying to get away, but he just kept going. I can’t even remember exactly what the beating was for—only the sound of the belt, the pain, and the feeling that in that moment, I wasn’t his daughter, just someone who needed to be corrected.
I used to watch Carol with her dad, always full of affection and warmth. I even felt a little jealous. I wished mine was like that too. Same with Julia’s dad. Even though he worked a lot, he always made time for his daughter. He made a point of dropping her off and picking her up from ballet. I always admired how affectionate Julia’s dad was.
In the end, my dad always put work first, like money could make up for the lack of affection. I can’t deny it: I had a princess life. He always gave me and my siblings everything. But love and presence aren’t things you can buy. He could fill the house with stuff, but the emptiness stayed right there. Did that emptiness—the lack of affection and validation—push me to look for it in older men when I sleep with them on calls?
I once read someone saying there’s a pattern that repeats with call girls: “poor thing, she only does this because her dad didn’t love her.” That line pisses me off because it’s way too reductive. It turns choice into an automatic consequence, desire into an unresolved wound. Like we can’t enjoy sex, money, and freedom while also carrying some absence. Maybe there’s a correlation. Maybe the emptiness leaves marks. But reducing everything to that erases the rest: the want, the pleasure, the decision. Besides, the same absence didn’t send my sister down the same path.
Isabella grew up in the same house, heard the same demands, felt the same distance. And still, she went a different way—we’re completely different. She’s all proper, in a monogamous relationship, and never got into any slutty shit. So there’s no automatic fate. The same absence can turn into different things.
That doesn’t mean the emptiness isn’t there. It is, and I can’t lie to myself. There’s an echo, and that echo tastes and smells like taboo. I’m gonna tell you...