The first man who broke my heart wasn’t the boy with whom I’d play— not the one who built with Legos on my bedroom floor all day. The first man who broke my heart wasn’t the dream in 5th grade’s glow, not a middle-school affection, not a high-school Romeo. The first man who broke my heart wasn’t my first ex, no start— the first man who truly shattered me was family from the start. I remember all the dinners, how he’d lift me in the air, buy me teddies, kiss my cheek like I was treasure he could spare. I don’t know when “my princess” turned to cutting, colder names, or when our talks of everything reduced to math and blame. I don’t know when his footsteps stopped inviting me along, or when the warmth inside his gaze forgot I once belonged. At ten, his hugs were memories that slipped just out of reach; at fourteen, I couldn’t picture ever holding hands with him— though baby photos preach. At fifteen, I kept asking why his love had come undone, why his baby, once his whole world, no longer felt like one. The first man who broke my heart …was my father, from the start. The first to teach me how it looks when love drifts cold, drifts far apart. And though no breakup letter came, though silence filled the final part— I still wish he’d told me why I wasn’t his little princess in his heart.