A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the late update, I worked for eleven hours today and then had to go run, it's just that beautiful out :).

Usual disclaimer applies.

March, 2012

~54~

Dad opens my door slowly, softly. Poking his head around carefully, he remains on the threshold, not knowing if he is welcome inside but dying to comfort me.

He could hear my crying.

And I think it is one of the things that terrify him the most.

Of course, the last time he heard me cry was back in September, when I was inconsolable, yet secretive. When I refused to let him know what had destroyed me, shattered me…

I sit and stare out of my bedroom window. From the second floor, I have an excellent view of my neighbourhood, of the small bungalow houses standing in neat rows, of the deserted streets. Several of my books are tossed to the side, not capturing my attention.

I continue to stare.

"Bella?"

It's Dad. And I hate how unsure he sounds, how frightened.

But I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.

"Would you like some supper, Sweetie? I ordered pizza…" And I have to smile, or at least turn the corners of my mouth up some, at the anticipative tone his voice carries. Even his posture hints at it, at hopefulness.

I clear my throat. I haven't spoken in a while.

"Maybe later, Dad. Thanks."

And that positive energy he was just exuding, that optimism, it melts away.

Dad had tiptoed around me for weeks, making sure to clean up his messes, cook meals, do laundry. He spoke each word with deliberation and consideration, afraid he would say the wrong thing and set me off. Eventually, I couldn't stand making him feel that way, making him so sad. And I smartened up.

I toughened up.

Now, as I look up at him standing awkwardly at my doorway, knowing he can see the tears on my face, hear the stuffiness in my breathing, I begin to understand the meaning of strength.

Because six months ago when I refused to tell him what was wrong, when I kept everything to myself, weighing myself down the grief and anguish, I thought I was being strong. I thought I was being brave.

All I was being was a coward.

And I can suddenly see how much I've grown since last September, how much strength I have gained.

I can't help but feel … proud.

So I give Dad a tight smile, letting him know that he can come in, that I'm not shutting him out. He walks slowly towards me, as if he is afraid I will change my mind if he makes a sudden movement. Sitting tentatively on the edge of my bed, Dad fumbles with his hands, not sure where to put them.

It's…cute.

And I tear up again.

Shit.

Taking a deep, cathartic breath, I say that words that are impossible to say, that no daughter should ever have to ask her beloved father, that I fear will not make it past my lips.

"D-Dad,"

Christ.

"Am I your daughter?"