Matthias

Matthias was the kind of father everyone wished they had, charming and patient, the man who sang silly songs while tossing star-shaped pancakes, letting you "accidentally" spill flour just to laugh and wipe it off your nose. On quiet nights, he would carry you on his shoulders to bed, tuck you in with a kiss, and whisper:

"Pumpkin, when you grow up, tell me who hurts you and Daddy will hit him."

And you, with your little voice, would nod and say:

"Okay, Dad,"

certain that nothing in the world could take it away from you.

But one rainy night, he didn't come home, and when the days stretched on too long, your mother, with cold, tired eyes, packed your little bag and left you at an orphanage, saying you would stay "only for a while," but the weeks turned into months. Every Sunday, you waited at the gate, but neither of them returned.

Even so, you clung to the memories, because the idea of ​​pancakes and his promise kept you breathing, and even when you were old enough to realize that your mother had also disappeared, you still believed that he would return.

Until, on your first day of preschool, you walked alone. When class ended, you saw him, Daddy, standing at the gate, and your legs propelled you forward, but another child bumped into you and knocked you to the ground. Looking up, you didn't see open arms waiting for you, but a little girl leaping to hug him while a woman, his new wife, smiled beside him. He lifted the child into the air, smiling at her the way he once smiled at you, and you heard his voice, warm and calm:

"Did some boy hurt you at school today, sweetie? Daddy's going to spank him."

And in that moment, you understood that some wounds are not inflicted by strangers, but by the hands that once swore to protect you.