What Makes A Bad Father?

A Survivor’s Story

BB Moore
8 min readJan 30, 2020


Photo by Sam Balye on Unsplash

There he was. But why was he here so early? We did not go to therapy until the afternoon, as the drive to Tucson was almost two hours. But he was here already. I felt the anxiety welling up. My hands began collecting my things as I knew what was coming next. The classroom speaker attached to the office crackled badly. But the school administrator’s voice was still easy to hear. “Can you please send Kim Thomas to the office.” The room erupted with high school kids jeering and taunting as I stood and made my way to the door.

It was not going to be okay

I grasped the knob on the door and gave it a twist and a push, and out I went. But why was he here so early? I made my way down the walkway to the office. My mind raced with all that had transpired the last week. What had he found out? What was uncovered? What lie had been opened up to the truth? I reached the office and went inside. I immediately knew that it was not going to be okay. The lady behind the counter started to greet me. But he cut her off and told me to wait out in the car. She looked at him and then back at me. I could see the fear and concern in her eyes. I went back out and made my way to the car.

Payday was here

Anxiety was tearing at my heart. I had done something wrong and retribution was now upon me. I got to the car and climbed in. He came out of the office and his pace was fast and direct. I could hear it through the closed door. His whistle. The whistling he did to hide his pain, frustration and more importantly his rage. He reached the car and got in. He placed the key in the ignition and backed at speed out.

Blood on his hands

We drove out of the parking lot and it happened. It happened so quickly I didn’t see it coming. His hand struck my face. The sound of the back of his hand slapping against my nose rang in my ear. I tried to cover myself before the second blow hit me, but I was too slow. He struck me again. He began to yell at me. “Why are you such a problem? Why?” he screamed. I tried to slide to the corner of the seat, but there was no hiding. Again, his hand struck my face. The blood ran from my nose, and my lip was bleeding from being struck and jammed into the teeth behind it…



BB Moore

Passionate about writing. Work with media/publishers to help others bring their stories to life. moorebbwriter@gmail.com https://writerbbmoore.com/