My Obsessive Father

My name is Gwen Thompson. From the moment I first formed memories, the air in our home was always taut, as if frozen solid, where even breathing demanded utmost caution, lest a careless breath unleash my dad, Andrew Thompson's wrath. My dad Andrew Thompson's love for my mom Harper Lewis was never a warm refuge, but a shackle wrapped in sharp thorns, binding her tightly within a cage. Mom's world was strictly bounded by Dad: she was forbidden to leave the house at will, forbidden to speak to strange men, and even what she wore or whether she wore makeup required his permission. In an early dawn, before the sky had brightened, Mom crouched by my bed, gently stroking my hair, tears in her eyes like beads that had broken free from their thread, falling drop by drop onto the back of my hand, icy and piercing. She said, "Gwen, when I am free, I will come to take you away." But she never managed to leave. Dad returned earlier than expected, trapping her at the doorway. He did not strike her; there was even a strange calm on his face. Instead, he threw her packed luggage piece by piece into the yard and lit a match to set it on fire. The firelight cast flickering shadows on his face and on Mom's eyes, filled with desperate anguish. Amid the crackling of burning luggage, he shoved Mom into an empty room upstairs and locked her in for three days and nights. During those three days, I could always hear Mom's stifled, broken sobs through the thick door—soft, yet shattering to the heart. This was not Mom's first attempt to escape. Each time she was dragged back, harsher punishments awaited her. Until the final time. I hid in the shadow of the stairwell's corner, watching Mom tremble as she raised a fruit knife and pressed it hard against Dad's chest—the blade already slicing through his shirt. Her hand trembled, yet her voice was resolute: "Andrew, let me go." Dad showed no trace of fear; instead, he chuckled lowly, a laugh laced with the arrogance of total control. He reached out to touch Mom's face: "Harper, you can't leave me." In the next moment, I saw the stark blood seeping from Dad's arm, staining his white shirt crimson. Mom slashed Dad's arm, but the knife was swiftly wrested from her by Dad's counterattack. After that, a woman named Danielle came into the household. Dad dismissed all the servants, leaving Mom to serve him and Danielle. Danielle constantly found new ways to deliberately make things difficult for Mom—sometimes complaining that the food was tasteless, other times that the clothes were unwashed. Dad would sit nearby, watching with cold indifference, never intervening. What distressed me even more was that Dad banished Mom to the storage room in the attic. The room was small and dark, corners piled high with dusty old furniture; the electricity was cut, not a single light could brighten it, and the damp air was thick with the smell of mildew. One night, Dad seized me, pointing at Danielle, and commanded me to call her Mom. I shook my head and said my mom was Harper Lewis, who lived right here. Dad's face darkened instantly; he raised his hand high, and just as the slap was about to fall upon my face, Mom suddenly lunged forward to block it. Mom held me close and said to Dad, "It was my fault to let her do this; don't hit her." That night, the cold wind howled as Mom was punished to stand in the yard all night, clad only in a thin housecoat. I lay pressed against the cold glass of the second-floor bedroom window, watching her frail figure shiver beneath the moonlight, like a leaf trembling on the verge of being torn away by the wind. I don't understand. Dad clearly says he loves Mom, so why does he treat her this way?