The woman gave back nothing.
“The blinds were crying light.” That’s what Molly’s father said every time he caught her staring at the picture on the wall opposite, not bothering to register his daughter’s expression.
Molly needed to know why he liked it, but these ridiculously sentimental words were the beginning and the end of the conversation.
He repeated them like a mantra.
“Oh, daddy”, Molly would mutter, layers of what she thought of as love folding themselves neatly into labeled cardboard boxes like outgrown clothes. When she had finished packing she would know.
Her father was ordinary.