The Unwanted Daughter

This body has never been welcome— not by him, not by her, not even by me. And I’m still unlearning how to stop punishing myself for being born the wrong kind of child.

I was born into a silence that began before me—
a silence that pressed itself into the walls,
into the towels folded too tightly,
into the way no one looked at my mother’s belly
when she walked through the village.

They wanted a boy.
A continuation.
A name that didn’t have hips
or softness
or questions.

But I came anyway—
loud, alive, already too much.

He looked at me
like I was a problem someone had failed to solve.

And I looked at him like children do—
with all the love in the world,
not knowing yet
that some fathers only teach by absence,
some hands only reach to punish,
some eyes never soften
no matter how small you become.

I grew up learning not to need anything
because the things I needed most
never arrived.

He gave me his rage
but none of his protection.
He gave me his voice
but never let me speak.

I learned to break things gently.
To cry without sound.
To make myself useful and invisible
and angry in ways that didn’t get me hit.

I was his daughter—
but only in blood.
Never in belonging.

My mother never held me.
Not like warmth.
Not like love.
She looked at me like a question
she never wanted to answer.

Too much resemblance
to the man who ruined her.
I reminded her of him when I shouted.
I reminded her of herself when I didn’t.

So I was left
between two ghosts—
and told to be grateful
for the roof.

I carry it all now—
the silence,
the rage,
the memory of hands
that never reached for me.

I carry the feeling
of being too much
and not enough
in the same breath.

I carry a name that doesn’t feel like mine
and the shape of a face
that looks too much like his.

I carry what my mother refused to touch—
my voice,
my grief,
my fury.

And some nights,
I still ache like a child
who never learned how to beg for love
without being punished
for wanting it.

---

Why I Wrote “The Unwanted Daughter”

I was not born into love.
I was born into a lineage of disappointment—a house that prayed for a boy and got me instead.

This poem comes from the wound I’ve carried since the beginning.
Not metaphorically. Literally. From the moment I was born, my existence felt like an intrusion. I grew up in a home where my body was already a betrayal, where silence was a language and shame was stitched into the curtains. Where no one celebrated my name. Where I had to earn love that never arrived.

I was my father’s daughter, but he never claimed me.
The first man I ever loved taught me how to disappear. He taught me that I was a problem. That girls were noise. That love was something you earned through obedience or suffered in its absence.

I wrote this because I’m still carrying that version of me.
The one who learned to cry without sound.
The one who thought being small would make her lovable.
The one who mistook fear for family, and absence for normal.

And even now, 35 years later, I still ache like a child who waited too long to be chosen.
Not just by her father—
but by a world that told her sons were legacy,
and daughters were lessons.

This poem is not healing.
It is what remains when healing doesn’t come.
It is the house I built from silence.
It is my voice—sharp, loud, burning—all the things they tried to erase.

This poem is me coming anyway.

© 2025 Solena Vyhra. All rights reserved.
This work is part of the poetry collection The Crown Was Never Yours.
No part of this poem, including text or visual design, may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
For inquiries, permissions, or collaborations, please contact: solenavyhra@gmail.com

Illustration and layout by Solena Vyhra.
Typography: Special Elite (poem titles), Signature (author tag).
Published on Substack via Where Silence Becomes Ritual.