It’s a strange kind of heartbreak when your daughter treats you like a ghost.

Not because she’s cruel. Not because she chose it.

But because she doesn’t understand the cost of what was given.

We talked the other day about righteous anger—and this is where it lives.

Not in violence. Not in shouting. But in restraint.

Every night I cried. Every night I stayed awake long after the world went quiet.

Every night I dreamed of Trinity biting her tongue like I did—trying not to stay longer than needed.

I learned how to swallow words, to step back when everything in me wanted to step forward.

Every memory of you carries two weights at once: joy and grief.

Sometimes that mix turns into anger—not at you, at the loss, at the silence.

I may be rough around the edges now. The years didn’t smooth me—they sharpened me.

But Trinity, I am still that man. Older. Wiser. Marked by pain, not broken by it.

Everything I did was rooted in love, even when I became the ghost.

Love, GHOST