He was the reason she hated herself.
She was never good enough for him.
Her hair was too dark; she wore too much makeup; she didn't get good enough grades.
She wasn't perfect, like she was.
She couldn't wake up every morning with a smile plastered on her face; she didn't like wearing dresses and skirts; she couldn't constantly think about the good in everything. She preferred her heavy combat boots to the delicate flats that still sat under the bed collecting dust.
She listened to loud music, played with scissors and yelled at anyone and anything that displeased her.
She wasn't good at cooking or cleaning the way she was.
She liked boys like Beck Oliver: tall, mysterious and brooding, opposing the clean cut boys he tried to set her up with who appeared to walk right out of catalogs.
She wasn't perfect the way he wanted her to be, and no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she pushed, he was there to tell her it's not good enough. She was not good enough.
So somewhere a long the way she stopped trying.
She applied her makeup darker; she bought all black clothes; she turned the volume up on her Ipod; she lost herself in her acting.
She stopped trying, but never stopped caring.
She wished that one day, he would look at her, really look at her, and see the damage that has been done; see the scars that he has inflicted on his own daughter.