My father kept insisting that I take cold showers, repeating the same harsh words: “You smell awful. Go wash up with the soap I gave you.” I obeyed, sometimes five times a day, until it started to drive me insane. My mother, strangely silent through it all, offered no comfort, even though she and I were usually close. I couldn’t understand why my dad was so fixated on this routine. Was it some odd new parenting method to make me cleaner?
Each time, I’d stand beneath the freezing water, teeth chattering, scrubbing with the strange soap he’d provided. The scent was sharp and unusual, nothing like the soaps I knew, but I trusted him. Maybe it was some kind of special formula, I told myself—something that would keep me smelling fresh all day. Still, a quiet unease lingered inside me.
That uneasy feeling grew into shock the day my boyfriend, Jake, came over. We were lounging in my room, laughing together, when I suddenly asked, “Do I smell bad?” I wasn’t sure why I said it—maybe I just needed to feel like all those cold showers were worth it. Jake chuckled, thinking I was joking, and went to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he returned, he looked pale, holding the soap I’d been using. His voice shook as he demanded, “Who gave you this? Are you really showering with it?”
A chill ran through me. “Yeah… why?” I asked, my chest tightening with dread.
His eyes filled with tears. “They didn’t tell you? This isn’t soap—it’s an antiseptic wash! It’s used to sterilize skin before surgery.”
My stomach dropped. “What?!” I grabbed the bar from him and finally read the fine print on the wrapper. The truth was there in plain words, words I had never bothered to notice before.
Confusion, betrayal, and anger twisted together inside me. Why would my father give me this? And why had my mother kept quiet? The cold showers, the pungent soap—it all felt less like hygiene and more like some twisted experiment I had unknowingly been part of.
Jake sat beside me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t believe they didn’t explain this to you.”
I shook my head, struggling to make sense of it. “Why would he make me do this? Was it supposed to teach me something about trust? Or was there another reason?”
Jake sighed, his voice gentle but steady. “I don’t know. But you need to ask them. Maybe there’s an explanation, or maybe it’s just a mistake. Either way, you deserve answers.”
His words steadied me. He was right—I couldn’t keep blindly obeying without understanding. I had to confront my parents, to demand the truth behind this unsettling routine.
With Jake by my side, I felt ready. Ready to face my father, to hear his reasoning, and finally put an end to the cold shower ordeal that had consumed me for far too long.
