by Ryan Montgomery
In another life and time,
I could save my father.
I’d stop him at the moment
he chose protection over truth,
when turning his back on me
felt easier than turning toward himself.
I’d pull the pen from his hand
before it signed my name into trouble,
before he learned how laws could do
what his absence never finished.
I’d tell him that silence can testify,
that paperwork can wound,
that betrayal doesn’t always raise its voice.
I’d save him from the lie
that he was keeping the peace,
from mistaking control for care,
from believing authority absolves blood.
I’d show him how courts remember
what fathers pretend not to.
I’d hold him still long enough
to see what it costs
when a parent becomes a witness
against their own child,
when love is replaced
by strategy.
I’d rewrite the story before it wrote me
as a problem to be managed,
before survival became a case file,
before his choices learned
how to follow me.
Maybe then,
he wouldn’t have mistaken loyalty
for obedience.
Maybe then,
he wouldn’t have needed the law
to hide a lie.