The Daughter And The Dead Horse

Edmund Burke once wrote, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." It is a warning, a call to action, a plea to those who believe they are righteous by mere virtue of inaction. But there is no righteousness in standing idly by as cruelty unfolds, no nobility in silence. The man who does nothing in the face of evil is not neutral; he is complicit.

And when that man is a father, his failure is not just one of morality, but of love.

For years, she begged for that love. She asked for it in the way children do—softly at first, with outstretched hands and hopeful eyes. Then, with questions, with searching. Then, with silent suffering, learning to expect nothing and still holding out hope. She spent her life petitioning for his affection, pleading for his approval. But his love was not unconditional. It was selective, reserved for the one child and one child alone.

For his youngest daughter, his love was something else entirely. A horse, beaten to death over and over, and yet she carried it still. She dragged its lifeless weight behind her, a grotesque burden she mistook for something worth saving. She held it up like a trophy, praying one day it would breathe again, that his love might return, that she might finally be enough. But every time she lifted it, he would strike it down again, over and over, with each word, with each rejection, with each excuse that absolved him of responsibility. This is your mother’s fault. This is your fault. You never told me. You never tried.

But she had tried. She had reached out, again and again, and each time he had swatted her away, dismissing her pain, rejecting her presence, shutting her down ensuring that she learned the lesson he needed her to learn—You are unworthy of my love.

And he still blames her. Blames her for the ways she learned to survive without him. Blames her for the anger he cannot face, for the truths he refuses to accept. He listens only to the daughter who treats him like garbage, who brings only tumult, but who came first. He expects the youngest, the one who listens to him and respects him, to absorb his contempt in silence, to nod and agree, to take the abuse and call it love. He expects her to be grateful for his presence, even when that presence only serves to diminish her.

"He's too good for you."
"You must have brainwashed these people to like you."
"Your house is the colour of a prison. I know you think you’re making it look nice, but you’re not."
"You're mean."
"You're delusional and too stupid to discern lies."
"You think you're a socialist but you're too stupid to know what it means."
"He didn’t want you."
"You're crazy."
"You're being hysterical."
”You think you’re good at making websites but you’re not.”

Direct quotes. His literal words to his youngest daughter. Words meant to wound. Words meant to shrink her. Words meant to make her absorb.

But she no longer will.

He says, "She’s so angry." He says it to anyone who will listen, as though it is her anger that is the problem, as though it is unprovoked, unjustified, unearned. But what he truly means is, "She holds me accountable for the nothing I did and for the neglect that was all I had to give her."

For his inaction. For his neglect. For his refusal to see. For his rejection of truth. For the cruelty of his favouritism and the ease with which he dismissed her.

And now, the dead horse is buried.

She has spent a lifetime dragging it, hoping it could be revived, believing that love—her love—could resuscitate what had long since been beaten beyond recognition. But love is not indestructible. It is fragile, breakable. When it is crushed, again and again, it shatters. It dies. And what remains is nothing but grief and the weight of years wasted begging for something that was never meant to be given.

Love should not be unconditional. Love should be reciprocal. Love should be given room to grow, not repeatedly bludgeoned into something unrecognizable.

And so, she walks away, lighter now, no longer burdened by the weight of what will never be.

He did nothing, and in doing so, he lost her.

And that is entirely his fault.