You don’t know how to tell him you don’t even have enough for yourself. That your spirit is bent to the point of breaking, that it’s happening, quickly, quietly, without incident. It feels like the country has intruded on your joy, crumbling you from the inside, making dust of your life. You open your mouth to speak, to tell your father what’s on your heart, but he cuts across, saying, ‘I don’t need you, anyway.’ He hangs up the phone, leaving you with silence pressed to your ear.
