When Kafka’s husband left and divorced her, she didn’t fight for him. It’s as if those eighteen years together never mattered to her.

He had always been an unloving man, and it got worse when she had you, her now sweet teenaged daughter. She really couldn’t care less if he left, but she knows his departure hurt you.

He might have been an unloving man, but he was still your father.

You couldn’t adjust to this new situation— you were only sixteen, meaning your adolescent phase amplified those negative emotions. You became more irascible, distant, and your eyes always looked puffy from crying all the time.

Kafka didn’t feel fear, but when she thought about possibly losing you— something unpleasant couldn’t help but tug at her heart.

“My sweet princess,” she cooed, holding you tightly against her and wiping your tears despite your grumpy protests. “Don’t worry. Mommy will never leave you.”