The Anger of the Bloodline

Dear Delyara, In my family, anger was the 'Fire' passed down like a cursed inheritance. My father had it, his father had it, and I felt it burning in my chest every time my kids didn't listen. It’s a hot, fast heat that makes you say things you can never take back. One night, I saw the look of pure terror in my seven-year-old’s eyes after I yelled about a spilled glass of water. That was my moment of Victoria—but it felt like a defeat. I realized I was burning my own children to stay warm in my own self-pity. I had to learn to douse the flames. I had to go to therapy, I had to apologize to a child who didn't understand why Daddy was so 'hot' all the time. Saving myself meant admitting that the fire wasn't 'strength'—it was a weakness I was using to protect a fragile ego. The house is quieter now. It’s cooler. And my kids don't flinch when I raise my hand to give them a high-five.