I just wanted to tell you about a time a few weeks ago, when I was on camps. You know I get scared easily. There are many times when you've comforted me from all my terrors and pains, and there are also many times when I've looked for a comfort but haven't found any ... and yet I'm sure that it was there, I just wasn't looking in the right place.
But we went mountain biking and I was scared. You saw me get off and walk with the rocks; you saw my nervous breakdown as we leaped down a two foot gap. Of course you did. And the other girls did too, my sisters, your daughters.
You saw me at the barbeque on my own as I watched my family playing frisbee, and you watched as I turned to look at a group of girls near the barbeque. Immediately they hushed. "Shh, she's looking at you!" They resumed their conversation in whispers.
Daddy, I don't like it when people talk about me behind my back, especially when I know what they're saying -- that I was a coward, that I'd been crying, that I'd been scared. They saw it all! And so did you. So why didn't you put understanding into their heart? Why didn't you give them the gift of compassion and kindliness and empathy? Why did you let them be so spiteful?
I'll tell you what I thought then, Daddy. "They're no different to everyone else." People say that we, as your children, are nicer and friendlier and think more about the feelings of others, but that's not true, because they're just as bad as the other people at school. And it was my 'sisters' who called me immature; my 'sisters' who abandoned me when they grew up faster than I did, just because of an accident of birth; my 'sisters' who called me crazy and left me alone.
So why, Daddy, why?