Inheritance of Fire

My father never hit me-- he just taught me how to burn. Taught me silence was safer than softness, that anger was armor and kindness a weakness someone would use. I watched him carve the word weak into everything he feared, watched him drown my brother’s voice, cut my mother’s name from the air. Hate was our heirloom. Polished like silver. Passed down like gospel. I almost gave it to my son. But I let him cry. And the fire stopped with me.