My father told me to take cold showers, always saying, “You smell horrible, go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.” And I did like five times a day — it was driving me mad. My mom stayed silent, which was strange since we were usually close.
One day, my boyfriend came over, and I asked, “Do I smell bad?”
He laughed, thinking I was joking, and headed to the bathroom. A moment later, he came back with a PALE look on his face, holding the soap I used to shower.
“Who gave you this?! Are you taking cold showers with this?!?” My blood froze. “Yeah, why?!” He started crying, “They didn’t tell you, did they?! Baby, this isn’t soap! It’s used to…”
My heart raced as I snatched the soap from his hands, examining it closely for the first time. It was a nondescript bar, slightly discolored, with a faint medicinal smell. “What do you mean it’s not soap?” I demanded, feeling a wave of anger and betrayal wash over me.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “This… this is a deodorant soap bar. It’s supposed to be used sparingly, like once a week, not every day, and definitely not with cold showers. It’s made for strong odors, but overuse can make your skin dry and irritated.”
I was stunned. Was this why my skin had been feeling raw and tight? Why hadn’t my parents told me? My father’s insistence on cold showers and this “soap” suddenly seemed like cruel instructions rather than fatherly advice. The sense of betrayal stung more than the shower’s icy water.
My boyfriend gently took the bar from my trembling hands. “We should talk to your dad. This isn’t right,” he said softly, his concern evident.
Feeling a mix of dread and defiance, I nodded. Together, we found my father in the living room, watching TV as if nothing was amiss. I confronted him, holding up the bar of ‘soap.’ “You’ve been telling me to shower with this. Why?”
My father glanced at the soap, his expression inscrutable. “You needed it,” he said simply. “It’s for your own good.”
“For my own good?” I echoed incredulously. “Do you have any idea what this has been doing to me? And why the cold showers? What was the point?”
He sighed, setting his remote down. “You’ve been going through a phase. I thought this would help.”
His vague response only fueled my anger. “You should have just talked to me! Not subjected me to this.” My voice was shaking now.
My father’s gaze softened, but there was a hint of frustration in his eyes. “I didn’t know how,” he admitted quietly. “I thought this was the easiest way.”
My boyfriend stepped in, his voice calm but firm. “Sir, if you wanted to address something, a conversation would have been better. This has hurt her more than helped.”
My father looked between us, the weight of his actions finally settling in. “I… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.
The apology was a start, but trust, once broken, takes time to mend. My boyfriend squeezed my hand, and I knew I wasn’t alone in this. Together, we could work through the aftermath, but it would take time for my relationship with my father to heal. For now, I was grateful for the clarity and for someone who cared enough to expose the truth.