I yelled at my Father

I yelled at my father.

I still don’t really understand where it came from.
It wasn’t building for days,
it wasn’t some long, thoughtful anger
it was sudden. Immediate.
Like something in me broke loose before I could catch it.

And that’s the part that unsettles me most.
Because it didn’t feel like me.

I keep replaying it
the tone of my voice,
the way it must’ve sounded from his side,
how quickly it all escalated into something I didn’t mean.

What I feel now isn’t anger.
It’s not even frustration.
It’s just this heavy, lingering remorse
that sits quietly and doesn’t leave.

He didn’t yell back.
He didn’t argue or defend himself.
He just… stopped.
Like something in him shut down.

He barely spoke for the rest of the meal,
and somehow that silence said more than anything he could’ve yelled.

Today was worse.

Not louder
quieter.

Every word felt forced,
every pause stretched too long,
like we were both pretending nothing had happened
and failing at it.

The distance between us felt new,
and I hated that I was the one who created it.

I tried to apologize.
I really did.

But the words came out wrong
too rushed,
too small for what I was trying to fix.

And I don’t know if it helped at all.

Still, I think he understood.
Or at least I hope he did.

Because I didn’t mean it.
Not in the way it sounded.
Not in the way it landed.

And if I could take it back,
I would
without hesitation.