Growing up, my dad wasn’t the emotional type. He rarely showed affection, but he was strict about one thing: hygiene. Every day, without fail, he would look at me with a grim expression and say, “You smell terrible — take a cold shower. And use the soap I gave you.”

At first, I thought it was just a weird phase. Maybe teenage hormones, maybe something else. But it wasn’t just once. It became a routine. He insisted on cold showers — never warm — and always with that one specific bar of soap he kept replacing in my bathroom. I’d take showers three, sometimes five times a day, trying to scrub off whatever it was he thought he smelled.

The strange part? No one else ever said anything. Not teachers, not friends. Just my dad.

Even my mom, who had always been my confidante, said nothing. She looked uncomfortable whenever it came up but stayed silent. That silence spoke louder than anything — especially coming from her.

I started to doubt myself. Was it just me? Did I actually smell bad and nobody else had the heart to tell me?

Then one weekend, my boyfriend came over. We were hanging out in my room, and I finally worked up the courage to ask him.