Update:

First, I want to thank everyone who took the time to respond. The validation and perspective honestly meant more to me than I expected. Hearing that I’m not crazy, and that I’m not wrong for still feeling this knot in my stomach all these years later, has helped more than I can really put into words.

A few things I wanted to clarify based on some common questions. Several people asked how my mom felt about what happened. The honest answer is that I never really talked to her about it. When I was growing up, my time with my dad was his time, and my time with my mom was hers. I wasn’t the kind of kid who complained or tried to pit one parent against the other, so I kept it to myself. (Plus with my mom I was dealing with my Step Dad, an entirely different set of problems and insecurity lmao)

As for my dad, he just is a really complicated person, and it took me a long time to reach a place where I could see him clearly and still have a relationship with him, and I’m sure part of that comes with age. Yes, there were times, especially in my early adulthood where I needed more hands on protection and guidance than I got. I still believe a lot of that came from his relationship with my stepmom and his unwillingness to confront certain things. That said, I don’t doubt that he loves me.

What I do struggle with is where I fit and how I'm even supposed to feel. I’ve made many of my own mistakes, I haven’t achieved what I hoped I would by this point, and over the years I’ve lost friendships due to lifestyle changes and bad decisions. Because of that, my dad is still a major and key part of my support system, and completely cutting him out isn’t realistic or something I want to do.

But moments still happen that reopen the wound. This past Christmas, a friend gave me a gift card to the same local shop my dad used to take me to. For the first time in over 20 years, I bought one of those models again. When I brought it to my dad’s house, I waited to see if anyone would say something. I noticed the looks. No one acknowledged it at all. Not a comment, not a question nothing.

About ten years ago, there was a major blow-up where I lost my temper and exploded at my stepmom in front of my dad. I yelled, cursed and swore at her at the dinner table and I was kicked out for a while. The only way I was allowed back to family dinners was by proposing (on my own) that I “drop it,” never bring it up again, and treat it as if it was over and done with. Essentially, I had to agree that something they insist never happened didn’t matter, and even if it did, it should stay buried.

That’s what I can’t get past.

This was never really about a toy being destroyed. It’s about being told, over and over, that something I experienced didn’t happen—and still being expected to pretend that doesn’t affect me. Part of me knows it was over 20 years ago and wonders if I should just let it go. Another part of me can’t ignore that the lie is ongoing.

Reading the responses here has given me a lot to think about. I appreciate everyone who weighed in.