"Hi, Daddy."
He didn't push me to talk in the car. We drove home, went inside, and he put the kettle on the stove. He knew that I loved tea and that chamomile always calmed me down. Other people wouldn't have noticed, but I'm sure that he saw the tension radiating off of me like a fever.
We sat there for a little while, at the table, waiting. I couldn't bring my self to do anything but stare forward. How could I do this? How could I even be here after the things I'd said and done? But I knew that I didn't have any choice. I saw my father move, and I flinched.
He was smiling at me and holding his hand out. I took it. I found my voice.
"Daddy...I..."
"I..." he started. I held up my hand to stop him. If we began to apologize to one another, then I'd start crying, and I'd never get throug
