I was watching My Future You on Netflix when I suddenly had an insight and felt the urge to write.

When I was a young girl, I was very close to my papa—I was probably the clingiest papa’s girl, and I’d cry every time I missed him. I was around three years old when my parents separated. I can clearly remember the night of a brownout when my parents were arguing. I was crying and had no clue what was going on. On the spot they asked me to choose between them, and under pressure I chose to stay with my mom.

On weekdays I stayed with my mom; on weekends I stayed with my dad. Every Thursday or Friday I would call my papa, tell him how much I missed him, and say how excited I was to see him over the weekend. We would go to the beach, ride bikes, hike in the mountains, eat at our favorite Chinese ngohiong place, and go to church.

Being a child who didn’t understand the world of adults, I kept asking my parents if they could get back together, but they always told me it would never happen. My only dream as a kid was to see my parents together—I didn’t want to have a broken family. I felt frustrated seeing my classmates’ parents together and wondered why I couldn’t have that too.

When I was about seven, I noticed my father spending less time with me. He began canceling our weekend dates, and I later found out he was dating someone and eventually got married. There were weeks when we no longer saw each other, and I resented him for that.

One dawn I woke to my yaya crying, telling me my father had been shot. I didn’t know how to react, and she said my papa was looking for me. I told her I would visit him that morning. A few hours later, while I was preparing to leave, I received a phone call saying he had died. I never cried, even during his burial—I simply couldn’t comprehend what was happening. My resentment toward him had grown so much that I hated him from then on. As a child, I tore up all our photos together. No one knew. I never talked to anyone about it.

When I was in high school, I read in the newspaper that my father’s killer had finally been caught and jailed. Somehow it dawned on me that it was time to forgive my father; my hatred was eating me up and had become a heavy burden to carry. I don’t know what’s worse: hating someone who is alive or someone who is dead.

Nowadays there are more broken marriages, broken families, and broken children. It’s especially hard when it happens while the children are too young to understand, and it can have a huge psychological effect on them.

To all couples—think thoroughly before bringing children into this world. Don’t ignore red flags. Don’t jump into marriage or raising kids when you’re not ready or capable.

To all “broken children”—forgive your parents. They are human and imperfect. Learn from their mistakes and correct things for the next generation.

If I had the power to go back and change the past, I wouldn’t change anything. Things happened for a reason. Forgiveness and letting go don’t happen overnight. Healing is a process—and it takes time.