"I don't know what to do. I just don't, Margaret."

She tore her eyes from the daffodils on the table. Bringing flowers had been a stupid idea. Going on a spontaneous trip to see her father for Easter had been an incredibly stupid idea. But since she had called him from Tokyo and he yelled at her over a connection that kept coming and going, the resentment coming through loud and clear though, he had just gotten quiet. The few conversations they'd had since, with both of them on American soil and the resentment coming through even clearer, had been short and painful. His part of the conversations had been mostly reduced to huffs and snide remarks, his voice always a bit slurred and with a cold edge to it. The coldness hurt, so she started to write him instead. Long letters, filled with superlatives about her new life, the new job, her new friends.
"The hospital is wonderful, daddy, you would love it. Everything is so well organized, such a dream compared to Korea. Everyone is so nice and efficient, and so friendly. I know you had hoped I would continue my career elsewhere, but this job offer was just too good to pass up. I know you understand. I love you, daddy."
Not once did she write what was really on her mind. "Dear Dad, I should have gone to Belgium."
As the weeks turned to months, she had grown more and more anxious to hear from him, she could feel the obsession grow. The one she had always carried with her, the deep, deep longing for her father to tell her she'd done well.
She would check her mailbox and feel around on the inside, just to make sure a letter hadn't got stuck somehow. Pick up the phone just to see if it was still working. Not running the water in the shower on full blast, so she could always hear the phone. Sometimes when she came home, she could swear the phone felt warm, like it had been ringing and ringing, which was stupid of course, and she had to fight down the urge to dial his number and check because she couldn't stand the risk of hearing him tell her he didn't have time to talk.
But the longing had kept burning, she needed to talk to him, to have a chance to explain. If she could just see him, look him in the eyes, and talk to him, surely he would understand.

Sitting in the rental, driving through the gorgeous April morning, she had kept telling herself that. Everything was a sign of good fortune, that she had made a great decision. The voice of Doris Day being the first thing she heard when she turned the radio on. The lark that sang so beautifully when she stopped for coffee. The daffodils she'd brought nodded their heads on the passenger seat beside her, yes - this was a great decision, and it was going to be a great day.

Her father's house was small but in a nice neighborhood. She rang the doorbell and waited, clutching the flower arrangement to her chest. She started to believe she had driven all those hours for nothing, but then she heard shuffling from inside, and the door opened.
As soon as she heard the lock, a smile was plastered on her face. The one reserved just for her father, the one she'd been smiling for all her life. The beggar-smile.
"I got an A+ on my algebra exam, daddy."
"I'm in the top five percent of my class, daddy."
"I got that promotion, daddy. And they're sending me to Korea."
It was a smile of protection, never one of joy.
He did not smile back at her and didn't take the flowers as she held them out to him. He did, however, have a lot on his mind, as it turned out.

In the dark living room, the curtains closed making it feel like a cave, her father was an ogre, trampling around, telling the human child who had dared venture into his kingdom what a disappointment she was.

Her smile was long gone, and even the daffodils bowed their heads in defeat when her father sank down into an armchair, proclaiming he didn't know what to do while reaching for a mug she was sure contained more than just coffee. He drank from it and turned his head away, in that gesture Margaret had known since she was a little girl. The one that meant the conversation was over, that her father was profoundly disappointed, and that any further arguments would just have to be swallowed down no matter how valid they might be.

"I swear, Margaret, I raised you better than this."

She swallowed hard, but this time the words didn't stay down.

"Did you, though, daddy? You were so rarely even there. You taught me to be strong, to not show any weakness, to work hard. But most of the time, you were more like a myth than a father. A big hero in uniform, out to make the world a better place. And when you were home you were a pat on the head, and a closed office door I used to tiptoe by. You were all these stories about victories and comradery, and I couldn't wait to be a part of that, that whole adventure. When mom got mad at me, she used to yell 'what do you think your father would say if he was here' and it always made me feel so small. Even if I didn't know what I had done wrong, I remember thinking I wasn't worthy of being part of your world. That I needed to work harder. I couldn't be the son you wanted so I became the soldier you could tolerate."

She took a deep breath, suddenly everything she wanted to say boiled down to one memory, crystal clear in her mind.

"Do you remember when I broke my arm? When I was eight? Danny Noland said there was no way a girl could climb all the way up in that old oak tree in the schoolyard, so I had to prove him wrong. And I did, I climbed higher than any boy, all the way up to where the branches were really tiny. But I had on these stupid shoes, and I slipped on the way down and landed on my arm. Mr. Edwards drove me to the doctor, but he had to get back to class right away. So I was alone and really scared, but I thought 'Daddy will be so proud of me if I don't cry'. So I didn't. And you were. That summer, you kept telling people about your brave little soldier who didn't cry even with a broken arm and made me show off my cast. It was horrible, so heavy and just itched and itched and itched, but I was so happy about it. I had done something right. But I should have cried, you know? I was eight, sitting alone at the doctor, watching my arm swell up, it hurt like hell and I should have cried. And you should have been proud of me anyway. I was a good kid. I turned out to be a good person. Eventually."

Her voice did that annoying jump-thing it always did when she was about to cry. She swallowed hard again, ordering her body not to, and for once it obeyed.

"But you never knew that. And now, the thing is I don't remember why it was so important to me. To get your approval. I tried, Daddy, I really did, and I think you did too, but you never saw me, not really. And that's okay. It really is, I know it wasn't easy for you either. But I have to stop now. I'm tired. I love you, Daddy, but I'm too tired. "

She got off the couch, walked over to her father, and kissed the cheek of his turned-away head.

"Happy Easter, Daddy."

On her way out, her father maybe said something, but then again maybe he didn't, and she didn't stop to find out. When she reached the car, her body did not obey orders anymore, and when she backed off the driveway the world was blurry. She caught a glimpse of her overnight bag in the backseat. It seemed to be mocking her, did she really think she would be invited to stay overnight? Yes, deep inside of her was a part that had not given up. Not until now. Not until his turned away head.

She drove through the neighborhood, once again jealous of the happy families in their forever homes. But this was good. An untethering.

On the motorway, she dried her tears one last time and took a deep breath. Back in a small dark house, her father was sitting with daffodils that would soon wither and die and a mug full of liquid comfort, but she was sitting in a car on a beautiful spring day, going places. It was just past noon; she could easily make it back in time for Linda's Sacreligious Easter Party Extravaganza, as the invitation had said. Take a shower, emerge as a new woman, put on that teal dress she hadn't had a chance to wear yet, and her strappy pumps. Not think about withering flowers in small dark houses, but see if she could find the bottom of that punchbowl the size of a public pool Linda had promised.


Many hours later, she opened her eyes and saw an unknown room. She blinked, trying to orient herself, and in the semi-darkness she could barely make out her teal dress in a heap on the floor, along with her bra and one of her strappy pumps. Her mouth felt sticky, and when she moved her head, she could feel a truly mind-bending hangover lurk behind her right eyebrow. There was a body behind her, big and warm. A heavy arm over her waist, a hand with broad fingers. For a second she panicked when she couldn't remember who it was. Oh god, not that banker, the one with the comb-over and the persistent jokes about visiting her vault. No, there had been someone else, that tall, gray-haired lawyer. Somewhere behind the hangover hid the memory of making out in the backseat of a taxi. This would be the sturdy arm that had kept her from tripping into a rhododendron while guiding her into a very nice suburban house.
She closed her eyes and thought of a lean body with skinny arms, delicate hands with slender fingers. Hands that could cheat death out of its prey, make her body sing, get tangled in her hair, and make the pain go away. These fingers looked wrong, the arm was too heavy, the body too warm and soft.

She really needed to pee but couldn't muster the energy to try and sneak out of bed and look for a bathroom that wasn't hers. She longed for a shower, for her own bed. For a big glass of orange juice with the pulp removed, and for someone to massage her scalp with slender, delicate fingers.
Maybe this was an easy one, one who pretended to be asleep while she scurried around for her clothes and shoes. Not one of them who wanted to cuddle, plan a day, tell her what a great time he had last night.

Please, please, please, be an easy one.

She couldn't stand the warmth under the quilt anymore, couldn't stand the feeling of another person's skin against hers, the feeling of being held down. She had hardly even begun to move and try to get out of bed, when the body behind her stirred, and the heavy arm pulled her closer. The voice was raspy and hot against her skin.

"I had a great time last night."


Authors Note:

I have always been upset Margaret didn't get a "Dear"-episode on the show. This is my version of it.