I Chose My Rich Mother Over My Poor Father… and Paid the Price

By the time I was a teenager, that bitterness turned into anger.

I called him a loser.

I told him that if he worked so hard and we were still struggling, then maybe he just wasn’t good enough. I said it with venom, with all the cruelty only a confused, hurting kid can manage. I expected him to yell. To punish me. To defend himself.

He never did.

He would just smile—soft, patient—and say nothing. That silence annoyed me even more. I mistook it for weakness. I didn’t understand that it was strength.

When I was seventeen, my mother came back.