“It almost killed me, Father,” she said, the anguish showing. “You don’t know how terribly I—” But she stopped herself, ashamed. He didn’t know, and she didn’t want him to know. She was the one who cared about their relationship, who wanted love and trust and gentleness between them. Not her father. He didn’t give a damn, as long as she minded him. “You said you had no daughter,” she repeated bitterly. “You wanted it that way, Laura.” She turned to stare at him, incredulous. “I?” She said. “_I_ wanted it that way?” “You denied my existence before I ever denied yours,” he said. “You ran away from me.” “You _forced_ me to.” “I did no such thing.” “You made life intolerable for me.” “I didn’t mean to.” It was an extraordinary admission, completely unexpected, and she looked at him speechless for a moment. “Then why didn’t you show me some kindness?” she said. “Just a very little would have gone a long way, Father.” He crushed out his cigarette in the heavy ashtray with an expression of contempt on his face, “You women are all alike, I swear to God.” he said. “Give you a little and you demand a lot.” “What’s wrong with a lot?” she said, trembling. “You’re my father.” “Yes, exactly!” he said, so roughly that she ducked. “I’m your father!” “Did you treat my mother this way?” she whispered. “Her life must have been hell.” He looked for a minute as if he would strangle her. She stood her ground, pale and frightened, until he relented suddenly and turned his profile to her, looking out the window. “Your mother,” he said painfully, “was my wife. I adored her.” Laura was absolutely unable to answer him. She sat down weakly in the stuffed chair by the dresser and put her face in her hands. Her father—her enormous gruff harsh father—had never spoken such a tender word in her presence in all her life. “I could never marry again, when she died,” he said. Laura felt frightened as she always did when her mother’s death was mentioned. She expected him to turn on her unreasonably as he had so often before. “I never struck her.” “Then why me?” she implored out of a dry throat. He turned and looked at her, his mouth twisted a little, running a distraught hand through his hair. “You needed it,” was all he would say. “What for?” “You _needed_ it, that’s what for!” And she was afraid to push him further. After some minutes he said, “Laura, you’re coming back to Chicago with me.” “No Father, I can’t. I won’t.” “That’s why I waited for you,” he went on, as if she had said nothing. “I won’t go to Chicago or anywhere else with you. I’m through with you.” “You could look for work with a radiologist, if you like it so well. I won’t insist on journalism. You have a flair for it, it’s a waste to leave the field, but I won’t insist. You see, Laura, I can be human enough.”