“What have I done to deserve this? Why do you critique me so harshly?”
I’m sure this image of my father would never leave my mind.
Words got caught in tears.
“I-I don’t know, Papa. I’m honestly not sure,” I faltered, stumbling down a path I feared venturing. “Maybe… Maybe I got it from Mum.”
“How have it come to this?” he continued, not listening or pretending not to listen, as if I alone had caused this and I alone had the answers.
“I don’t know!”
I sighed in equal frustration and hopelessness, thinking of all the times we argued but never talked; never truly interacted, never showed a general interest in one another. Each pathetic attempt to throw a line that the other one didn’t see, didn’t value. Quietly blaming each other.
All these times where we couldn’t be more alike; truly a child of its father.
“You gave me the whole world, Papa. Do you really blame me for being so much like you?”