I can’t remember much about my dad from before the change. I was too young. But there are photos of him and my mom, back when life seemed simpler. In those pictures, they both look so full of joy, especially him. Dad’s smile was wide, his eyes bright, and there was this undeniable happiness that seemed to radiate between them. It’s hard to believe that was the same man I grew up with.
What I do remember is the first time I saw him look at my mom with disgust. It was a subtle moment, but I caught it—his lips pressed tight, his eyes narrowed. That was three years ago, and I’ve gotten better at spotting the signs since then. At first, I thought I was imagining things, but the more time passed, the clearer it became. The rage brewing beneath his surface wasn’t some random frustration; it was growing, festering.
The little things started to pile up. His fists would clench for no reason, and when they argued, he would grip the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. His nightly glass of whiskey slowly morphed into two, then three. Some nights, the bottle would be empty by the time I went to bed. And the next morning, I’d wake to find him slumped in his chair, staring at nothing, as if the world had wronged him in some unspeakable way.
At first, Mom seemed confused by the changes. I could see the sadness in her eyes. She tried to brush it off, making excuses like, "Work’s been stressful for him," or "Maybe he’s just tired." She was always waiting for the man in those old photos to come back. He stopped kissing her before leaving for work, stopped bringing her flowers on random afternoons like he used to, and when their anniversary came and went without so much as a card, I think even she knew something had fundamentally shifted.
His indifference turned into hostility. What were once careless forgettings became acts of resentment. The tension in our house became suffocating. Every interaction between them was laced with venom. Sometimes it was subtle—a cold glance, a cruel remark—but other times, it was blatant, like when he’d slam doors or stomp out of the room mid-conversation. I could tell Mom was scared. She wouldn’t say it, but I knew. Her hands shook sometimes when she thought no one was watching, and her eyes darted nervously around the room when Dad was near.
Last week, I saw it—the moment when I thought he might actually hit her. His hand was raised, trembling in the air between them, his eyes wide and wild. She flinched, and for a second, everything froze. But then he dropped his hand and stormed out, leaving behind an unbearable silence.
I don’t think she’s slept much since then. I certainly haven’t. The house feels like a ticking bomb, and we’re all just waiting for it to go off.
Tomorrow marks a date none of them ever talk about. It’s the anniversary of my death. They haven’t said it out loud in years, but I know the date is carved into their hearts, a wound that never quite healed. The official story is that I was kidnapped. Everyone believed it back then, or at least they pretended to. But my dad...he’s always known something wasn’t right.
For years, I could see it in the way he’d look at Mom when he thought she wasn’t watching. It wasn’t just anger—it was suspicion. There was this heavy doubt in his eyes, a question he never dared to ask. I could feel it growing in him, like a sickness he couldn’t shake. He didn’t believe the story. Not fully. He’s never stopped looking for answers, quietly piecing things together in his mind. And now, it’s all starting to unravel.
Three days ago, he found the evidence. My bloodied shirt, the one Mom thought she had hidden so carefully, tucked beneath the floorboards in the attic. I watched him discover it, watched the shock ripple across his face, followed by rage. He didn’t confront her right away. That’s not his style. He’s been stewing, letting the anger build, silently plotting what to do next.
I wonder if Mom knows that her secret is out. She’s been more on edge than ever, jumping at the slightest sound, her eyes wide with panic. She must feel it—that looming storm about to break.
The truth is, I’m tired of watching this dance between them. The lies, the tension, the constant threat of violence hanging in the air. I’ve been waiting for something to happen, waiting for my dad to finally snap. Part of me even hopes he does. I’ve been dead for years, after all, and in a twisted way, I think it’s time for him to find out the truth, time for him to release all that pent-up rage. He’s capable of doing something terrible now. I can see it in his eyes, the way he clenches his jaw whenever he looks at her.
Maybe tomorrow, on the anniversary of my death, he’ll finally act. Maybe he’ll have the courage to do what he’s been too afraid to do all these years.
I hope he kills her.
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