One day, my dad handed me a strange soap bar, insisting it would help with my body odor. Confused, I used it religiously, showering five times a day. My skin became dry and rough, but he kept saying, “You smell so bad.” What hurt most was that my mom stayed silent through it all, never defending me.
Eventually, my boyfriend Henry visited and discovered the truth: “This isn’t soap, Amy! It’s used to strip industrial machinery of grease.” I was shocked and devastated, realizing my father had been using it to hurt me.
I confronted him, demanding an explanation. He revealed that a fortune teller had told him I wasn’t his biological daughter. “You’re not my blood,” he said, claiming that my mother had an affair. In his twisted revenge, he gave me the toxic soap as punishment.
Heartbroken, I moved out with Henry and filed a restraining order against my father. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” I told him as I walked out of the house that used to be my home. My father’s reputation was destroyed, and his circle turned against him.
My mother tried to contact me, but I ignored her. If she couldn’t stand up for me when I needed her, I couldn’t forgive her. Now, living with Henry, I’ve found peace. I don’t remember the last time I felt so safe or happy.
I’m grateful for his love and support, and I finally feel free from the torment of my past.
