"My father dies, and suddenly you can not talk to me about dead puppets?"
...
It must be dreadful, the life of a puppet. Ankles and wrists bound, a puppet is at the mercy of her master.
While his cords provide support, holding her up as they always have, they also command her every move. She becomes whatever he fancies; she dances whichever dance he pleases.
He holds no ill will against her, however. All he wants is for her to be happy and safe. If this can only be done through his instruction, then so be it. Without him, without his command, surely she would perish. He only wants the best for her, if only she could see that.
Now, however, the puppet-master is dead, the cords severed, but the puppet does not die.
No, she dances on, this time to a dance of her own design.