They call it loyalty, but sometimes it’s just fear dressed in tradition.
You grow up believing family means forever. You take their anger, their judgment, their silence — because that’s what good sons do. You bury your own voice so theirs can fill the room.
But loyalty without respect rots into something darker.
It becomes control.
It becomes guilt.
And you keep feeding it because you were taught that walking away is betrayal.
I used to think distance was weakness. Now I see it’s survival.
Every conversation turns into a test — prove you’re still one of us, prove you haven’t changed.
But I have changed. I had to.
I stopped apologizing for wanting peace more than approval.
They tell me family is blood. But blood dries.
What keeps people bound is choice — and they stopped choosing me a long time ago.
Still, part of me aches for them. That’s the hardest part. You can love the people who broke you and still know you can’t go back.
Tonight, I lit a candle for the version of me that kept trying.
He deserved better.
I do too.
Maybe loyalty isn’t about staying. Maybe it’s about finally being honest — even if it means standing alone.
