Diary Of A Dead Man Reborn

  2012. I was 28 years old, and the walls of my life were closing in on me faster than I could breathe. My daughter, just six months old, had become my world. But my world felt like it was spinning out of control. What I didn’t realize then, what I couldn’t see through the fog of anger and pain, was that the real battle wasn’t with my wife or my circumstances—it was with myself. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, the remnants of another fight still thick in the air. My wife had retreated to another room, her silence heavy with exhaustion—not from our newborn, but from me. I had become someone I didn’t recognize—someone I hated. The words I hurled at her, sharp and cruel, were weapons I wielded without thought, aiming at the person I vowed to love and protect. But it was me who felt wounded, like I was fighting a war I didn’t even understand. I glanced at my daughter, sleeping peacefully in her crib nearby, oblivious to the storm brewing in her parents’ lives. What kind of father am