< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.
All my childhood, I was told that I looked like my father. My parents divorced when I was, I think, 4 years old. I never suffered because of it, because my mom did everything so that I wouldn’t lack anything. They divorced because he lied to her and cheated on her repeatedly.
In my teenage years, I wanted to communicate with him more because he was still my dad. He had a new wife, and a son was born. I sometimes visited him, but we were never particularly close.
When I entered university, we sometimes messaged each other on Facebook. Mostly on my initiative. Once, he asked if I was a lesbian. I said yes (that was true at the time; now I have come to pansexuality). And he reacted normally. That comforted me.
Another time, he asked if he could share with me a dream of his that had come true. I agreed. He told me about his first threesome. It was a shock for me, and I didn’t want to know such details about my father. I mean, I’m okay with threesomes, I am polyamorous, but reading about it from my father was traumatic. I stayed silent because I didn’t want to lose contact.
Another time, he mentioned details about sex with my mom. By then, I think I had already said that I didn’t want to know about that. But the climax was his messages with harassment: requests for me to undress and so on. He sent his nude photos and photos of his wife. Since then, we have not communicated. I told my mom. She told his mom. It turned out that he had sent similar messages to my aunt, my mom’s sister. When my mom asked him about it, he tried to shift her attention with the phrase: “Do you think I don’t know that YOUR daughter is a lesbian?” As if that somehow justified him. At first, he apologized, but when I ignored his apology and blocked him, he started acting aggressively toward my mom.
I cannot imagine what it is like to have a father who cares about you and is not a threat. I haven’t spoken about this publicly before, but his actions were one of the reasons why I changed my surname to one I chose myself, and my patronymic to a matronym: I don’t want to have anything in common with him.
Yes, I was already an adult when this happened. But it is still terrible. Recently, I visited my grandmother, his mom, and she said that they had “worked through” this situation and that he misses me. I really hope he misses me. She suggested that I call him, but I gave a resounding refusal. I have not “worked through” anything.
Six years have passed. Now he has been mobilized, and sometimes I have thoughts that maybe I should talk to him. But I cannot imagine how to do that. There is so much pain and resentment. I don’t know if it is possible to restore a normal relationship after this, or if it is possible at all. During the war, the fragility of human life is felt especially sharply, but this pain is more severe than the fear of loss.
Wine, 26 years old; story shared in 2024 as part of the campaign “16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence.”