Hushed Willows [m] But business is business, and business runs in the family

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To my father:

You never said it, but everyone knew I was your favorite daughter. I thought that made me special. So many times I stayed up all night memorizing herb names and their uses, going over it again and again just so you might smile at my achievement. So smart for a girl, you'd always say. That was before the fire. Before Rose.

It's easy to feel angry these days, to remember the endless fear and the shouting and the dark welts you left in your wrath. The condescension; the control. It was harder back then. No one could ever deny that you loved us, all of us, and maybe that was your sin as much as your virtue. You were always so obsessed with that, sin and virtue, something I never could learn for as much as I tried. But you were the one who taught me this: love as possession, love as a clinging desperate thing, love as anger and bitterness and salt on your lips.

It's easy to hate you with this distance between us, but I understand now why I was your favorite daughter. I understand you. I am you. Softer, too much a coward and too much a girl to fully bear the torch you passed, but it burns just the same.

Tell me how to make it stop.