She stared at her hands. They wouldn’t stop shaking. She whispered to them to stop, but they didn’t. She could feel her dad’s eyes on them. She could feel him waiting for her to say something, for her to respond in any way except with the trembling of her hands, but she knew what she wanted to say and it wasn’t what her dad wanted to hear, besides, was it really worth saying anything if he really only heard and never actually listened? She fumbled with the bracelet on her wrist, trying to force out an “I’m sorry,” like a good daughter would, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t sorry. She looked at her dad -- at the wrinkles forming on his forehead, at the bags resting under his eyes -- at the look on his face whispering, “I’m done.” She wanted to hug him and slap him in the face at the same time because this was all his fault. He chose this for himself, he chose her. He chose her and she tried to tell him not to, not her, not now, not again. The girl stood up and looked her dad in the eye, spun around, and walked away. He didn’t deserve anything from her.