We’re trapped inside, watching the rain pour violently, vigorously. I hate it. I don’t know about Daddy; there is so much I don’t know about the man who watched me grow, who took turns feeding me, who walks around this house, hardly speaking his mind, hardly complaining, hardly arguing. I don’t know if he feels as trapped as I feel when it rains or if he is at peace. The rain keeps pouring outside, and we watch it behind the glass windows. I don’t know when it will stop.
And I don’t know my father.