My Father is not My First Love.

I am my father's daughter, but not like everyone else —my father is not my first love. Maybe I was too blind about how exactly love works, or maybe he was just too young to teach me how to love. Now thinking about how he is always hard on me, and how his screams and shouts don’t sound like what love is supposed to sound like. Or how that punch didn’t feel as gentle as the love should be. His attitude, his demands that never ends. So how can you call it love when everything always has to be about him? 

Is that love, when the word “sorry” never comes from his heart? 

Is that love, when “sudah makan belum?” sounds more like a guilty conscience? 

I guess I never learned what exactly love is because that kind of love I always knew when I was a little. I don't know how to love, I don't know how to be loved.

My father is not my first love. But he is the love that I must fight for. The reason why I should learn about it in the first place. Now, he is the one who makes me the strongest. The one who makes me learn which one is love and which one is not. 

My father is the kind of love that has taught me to always be patient, to always be observant, to always be more gentle, and to always realize that there are so many forms of love to be discovered in the future. 

My father is not my first love yet, he is the love I'm willing to learn. The love that I hope never ends.