Anne watched the stiffness in her father, watched his jaw clench, and smirked. Good. She hoped it hurt. Anne wasn't ready for how much it bothered her to hear him say she hated him. He was right, of course. He had to be. At least, it would have been easier if that were the case. Anne held two truths in her heart, and she didn't enjoy it. A part of her wanted her father back, at least the person she remembered. The other part wasn't sure why she hadn't taken another swing at him.

"I don't want to be you," Anne seethed at the implication because, six years ago, he would have been correct. Anne had grown up wanting to be like her father. She'd wanted to be strong, like her daddy. She wasn't sure there was any real strength in the coward in front of her. She felt a now-alien impulse to hug him, to bury her head against his chest and vent her woes, convinced that her dad could fix anything. Anne wasn't sure what day it was when that feeling died, but she wasn't giving it room to remain.

"I'm going to become something great; something bigger than you ever thought of being." Anne's eyes burned like hot coals, her resolution strengthening her voice, reinforcing her physical need to posture. "And when I do, you're going to wish you remembered you had a daughter." And then, just maybe, Kit Moony would understand what it was like to stare at someone you loved and only see a stranger.

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