47. Your father. He was never as bad as your mom, but that was just because he was the soft-spoken one. If he talked more, he would probably only have negative things to say about me. I saw the looks he gave me. And all those handshakes that we’ve shared. I’m surprised that I still have all the bones in my hand intact. It was always awful when the two of us were alone. He would be silent for the first minute, and then in his very sturdy voice, he would ask me all these questions that made me feel two feet tall. Your dad always did have a way with words. He used them sparingly yet scathingly. I still remember the first thing he said to me: “So. You’re the one I keep hearing about. I thought you’d be taller.” Taller. Geez. I had always been comfortable with my height, but after that, I suddenly started paying more attention to my posture, just in case I could sneak in a few more inches. Your mom hated (well, still hates, I guess) me more, but your dad always was less accepting.