I cannot believe I was just called a whore–by my father. “I’m going to shove my foot up your a**,” were words I had hoped my dad wouldn’t say to my boyfriend. “Go live in the whore house with your mother,” were words I had hoped my dad wouldn’t say about my mother. “I don’t want you at my house,” were words I had hoped my dad would never say about me. All because of a phone call.
Freshman year was a time of innocent relationships and overprotective fathers. I was hanging out with my boyfriend of eight months. It was around my birthday; we had gone to my room to spend time together and he presented me with a necklace. Nothing more had happened. My father went grocery shopping and left us at home. He called wanting to know what we wanted to eat, but I didn’t answer.
Then he came home. He was furious because I didn’t answer. I tried to explain to him what happened; he wasn’t buying it. As we were watching TV, my father said rude things to my boyfriend, but nothing to me. That was until my boyfriend left. I was scared to be alone.
Cornering, insulting, yelling. I couldn’t believe the words I heard. You’re a whore. My insecurities were getting higher. You’re a whore. Why would he jump to conclusions even after he left us alone? You’re a whore. Those three words kept repeating in my head. I packed my bags.

Taken home by my dad, I couldn’t stop crying. I felt abandoned. Unloved. He ruined my image of myself. My mother, knowing that his house wasn’t a good place for me, took him to court for full custody. She lost. But I now only see him every other weekend. Our relationship will never be the same. That place will never be called “home” again. All because of a phone call.