Months later, we had a fight. It was Father’s Day, and when I forgot to help carry some groceries inside he called me the laziest little girl in the world. I absolutely snapped. I told him he could not speak to me that way. I had never screamed at him before, but I was now. I was nearing 13 and still harbouring anger about the time he forgot me, and remembering other times and events that now struck me as neglect, or at least indifference. He, in turn, said I was behaving like a child, that I was ungrateful, and some other very nasty things. Things that made me feel unloved, unwanted, burdensome. Despite my rage, I also felt that I had fallen short of being a good daughter. I ended my weekend visit by calling my mother to come pick me up. He didn’t even walk with me to the front of the apartment complex. He stood in the doorway and shouted at me to “Get your ass back here right now!” as I walked away in the blistering Florida heat, pink suitcase in tow.