She stared at the figure lying down on the bed. The last time they met, he had glared down at her, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth tightening. “You are free to make your own decision as long as you are not my daughter.”
Two days later, her name change notice appeared in the newspaper. She didn’t know his reaction to this because she had already left home. Through the years, she had known about him from the press and some relatives. Now, she was seeing him again after a decade. Their war had to come to an end.
She remembered the shock she felt when she saw his message on WhatsApp: Come home, let’s have a meal. It was a message for reconciliation. She thought she would be pleased, feel victorious. But she only felt a vague sense of helplessness and frustration, but also a bit of yearning.
He opened his eyes and saw the daughter he hadn’t spoken to in ten years. He stood up, patted her shoulder and inquired about her well being awkwardly. Then they did have meals together with staggered conversations. They drank coffee together in the evening and found that their conversations were smoother as long as they didn’t talk about themselves. They were indeed father and daughter in this manner.
Then she slowly came to understand that he too was tired and helpless. He too was frustrated, and he too yearned for many things. Their similar personalities set their paths in diametrically opposite directions, but eventually, this blood relationship made their memories of sharp rebukes and thorny accusations fade. The years had smoothened her edges and pushed down his pride.
On that day, drinking coffee in the balcony with Marie biscuits, they both found themselves thinking, “This is nice.”
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