in this story, her father would not be her father, but her mother’s husband. The love of her mother’s life. The person she had killed. Unintentionally, yes, but that didn’t matter, because you had done it and now all you wanted was to stay in the dark with him. But you couldn’t—because here was your daughter, who had your husband’s hands but her own eyes, eyes that watched you all the time, asking, needing. And you wanted to give, you did, but there was no one to give to you.
