She doesn’t like that she has her dad’s eyes.

She sees him every time she looks in the mirror; not the man from old photographs,

but the one who taught her how love can arrive loudly and leave without explanation.

People say she's  beautiful.

Large eyes.

Honest look. 

The kind that look like they trust the world too easily.

But she knows better.

She learned early that eyes can promise things hands never keep.

Her father used to say, “You see things just like me.” She wishes that wasn’t true.

Because seeing like him means noticing when love starts changing temperature.

When voices soften before they harden.

When apologies arrive pre-packaged and responsibility never shows up.

She hates that her eyes remember what her heart keeps trying to forgive.

They remember doors closing.

Chairs staying empty.

Birthdays celebrated late, or sometimes not at all.

Sometimes strangers stop her and say, “You look just like your dad.” They don’t know that sentence lives in her chest like unfinished business.

She’s tried loving differently.

Choosing better. But somehow, she keeps finding familiar eyes, the same absence dressed in new faces.

It scares her.

Because what if it’s not coincidence?

What if inheritance isn’t just blood, but patterns?

What if her eyes were trained to mistake distance for mystery, silence for depth, and leaving for strength?

Still, she wakes up every morning, and borrows mascara like armor.

If she has to carry his eyes, she will at least decide what they look toward.

And maybe one day, she’ll stop seeing her father in her reflection, and start seeing a woman who stayed.

But for now…

She doesn’t like that she has her dad’s eyes, because every time she cries, it feels like he’s leaving her all over again.

amimoh_ombogo