I always thought I was Daddy’s little girl. At least, that’s what I believed. But now, just saying those words makes me sick. I am not his little girl, and he is not the man I thought he was.

Let me tell you why.

A Special Bond with My Father

My father and I were always very close—inseparable. I’m 23 years old and lived with my parents until just a month ago because he never wanted me to leave home.

He even gave me the entire second floor of the house. My bedroom and bathroom were mine alone, my safe space. At least, until he started complaining.

My father was a strict man. He always said:

“Character is built through hardship. If you want a good life in the future, you must learn to endure discomfort now.”

Despite his tough nature, he also had a softer side. On bad days, he would bring me chocolates and ice cream.

My mother, on the other hand, was pure sweetness. She always hugged and kissed me and cooked my favorite meals. She was a delight.

But in the past few months, my parents changed. Suddenly, they became cold and distant. It felt like I was living with strangers.

The Criticism Begins

My father’s complaints started subtly but soon became constant.

“You and your friends are too loud!”
“You stay out too late, Amy!”
“You waste money on useless things!”

But the worst one of all shattered me:

“You smell terrible. Go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.”

I was shocked. What? I had always been meticulous about my hygiene.

Then, he handed me a strange bar of soap—a green, lumpy block with an odd smell. He insisted that it would help me get rid of my “bad odor.”

His words affected me so much that I started avoiding my boyfriend, Henry. I began sniffing my skin, my clothes, my hair, even my breath—trying to understand what made my father so uncomfortable around me.

I started showering multiple times a day, scrubbing my skin raw until it became dry and rough. But still, he would say:

“Amy, you still stink. Are you sure you used the soap?”

My mother, who always defended me, remained silent. She didn’t say a word in my defense. She just looked away.

That’s when I knew something was seriously wrong.

The Shocking Discovery

My skin was irritated, my excessive showers were hurting me, and I barely looked at my father. Henry noticed that I was different and decided to visit me.

“You’ve disappeared, Amy. What’s going on?”

I tried to fake a smile, but he didn’t buy it. Then, I asked him:

“Henry… do you think I smell bad?”

He laughed, thinking I was joking.

“Of course not! You smell fine. Why?”

I felt relieved but didn’t have the courage to tell him the truth. He went to my bathroom, and minutes later, he came out holding the soap. His face was filled with shock.

“Who gave you this? Are you showering with this?”

My heart pounded.

“My dad… but why?”

He took a deep breath and said something that sent chills down my spine:

“Amy… this isn’t soap. This is an industrial cleaner used to remove grease and grime from machinery. This is TOXIC!”

My legs felt weak.

“This can cause chemical burns on your skin!”

Suddenly, everything made sense—my dry, irritated skin, the strange texture of the soap, the overpowering scent. My own father had been poisoning me.

The Truth That Shattered My World

Henry insisted we go to the hospital and then to the police. But I stopped him.

“No… we can’t report my father.”

“Amy, he’s hurting you!”

“I… need to find out the truth first.”

I was in denial. I couldn’t believe the man who raised me would do this to me. So, I decided to leave home and move in with Henry. Our apartment was small and simple, but for the first time, I felt safe.

The next day, I went back to my parents’ house to confront them. My father was watching TV as if nothing had happened. I threw the soap onto the table and demanded:

“What is this? This is toxic! My skin is ruined. WHY did you do this?”

He smirked.

“So, you finally figured it out?”

My mother started crying.

“Amy, I…”

“You knew, Mom? You were part of this?”

She lowered her head, silent.

I demanded answers, and then my father said something that shattered my entire existence:

“You really want to know why? Fine. Last year, your mother and I went on vacation. We got drunk one night and ended up in a crowd where a fortune teller told me your mother had cheated on me. The next morning, when I confronted her, she confessed. You are not my daughter. You are the result of her affair.”

My heart stopped. I looked at my mother, but she couldn’t meet my eyes.

“She begged me not to leave her. I agreed… under one condition. She had to pay for what she did. And so did you. Because YOU ARE NOT MY DAUGHTER.”

I was paralyzed. My own father hated me for something that wasn’t my fault.

“So you gave me toxic soap because you were mad at Mom? Because you thought I wasn’t your daughter?”

He nodded coldly.

“You’re not my child. You’re not my blood.”

At that moment, I realized I could never call that man “father” again.

“Fine. Because I want nothing to do with you either. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

Justice and a New Beginning

I walked out of that house and never looked back. Over the next few days, I received medical treatment for my skin and consulted my lawyer. Soon, my father was served with a restraining order and a lawsuit.

His arrogance crumbled. His reputation was ruined as everyone learned what he had done.

My mother tried to contact me, but I ignored her. She had the chance to protect me and chose silence. That was enough for me.

Now, living with Henry, I have finally found peace. For the first time in years, I feel safe and loved.

I may have lost a father, but I gained something far more valuable—freedom.