When I was little, I spent so much time waiting for dad to come home. When it was just me and mom, the house (houses, there were many) always felt different. I remember sitting outside waiting for him, standing up at attention every time I heard a car coming down the street.
'There's my little soldier', he always said, and I stood there with my back so straight it almost cramped up. When he had been gone for a long time, I always got to carry one of his bags inside, and there would always be a gift for me in there. Mostly, it was a doll. One that would sit on my dresser, I never played with them, they were just too precious.
I think I'm still that little girl, waiting for dad, so eager to make him proud, keeping my back so straight it cramps up.

Before Margaret closed the door behind her, she turned around and cast one last glance over the compound, as she always did when coming home in the dark. Making sure no one was following her had become second nature, a routine amongst others.
When her eyes landed on the tall shape walking with determined steps towards the O-Club, her body tensed, like she had just stepped into the freezing ocean. It hadn't even been 30 seconds since she left his tent. 'We'll talk tomorrow, I'm tired'. Not too tired for a drink, apparently, for the company of others. Just not her.
She quickly pulled the door closer to her, watched through a small crack as her father disappeared into the O-Club. The icy cold held its grip and she felt frozen in place, she stared at the closed door for what felt like ages before slowly closing her own.

Of course, he would seek the company of others. She couldn't blame him; she wouldn't want to spend time with her either. He had come all the way out here only to find his daughter being a complete failure, messing everything up from the first second. She should have made sure her nurses were proper, more prepared. And what even was that, throwing herself at him like a little kid, hugging him in front of everyone. It was her responsibility to check that his tent was in order, she knew better than to just leave things to Klinger.
Her fault for not paying more attention, how could she have been so sloppy?
The terrible raucous from the instruments clattering to the floor echoed through her head, making her stomach turn. How was it even possible to be such an idiot? Her father was so kind for not mentioning it, he was such a wonderful man.

Margaret tore the pins from her hair, ran her fingers through it, and sat down in front of the mirror.
Her eyes glistened in the pale light. Pathetic. Crying like a little girl, when everything was her own fault. What was her father supposed to do, give her a consolation prize for trying? He had traveled such a long way to see her, on those horrible roads, risking his life, and the first thing she did was talk about the divorce? Her parents had been married for almost 30 years, her own marriage had lasted for 5 minutes, she had no right to even have an opinion. Her father had been so supportive about her divorce too, just a short 'You do what you think is best, Margaret, you always have.'
Couldn't she have kept her mouth shut, did she have to let every thought in her head just pour out, like some vicious word-vomit?
All the things her father had sacrificed for his family, for his country, and this was how the one person he was supposed to be closest to repaid him? Pathetic.

She grabbed her brush and ran it through her hair, fast and hard, tore harder when it got caught in a tangle. Dammit, she couldn't even keep herself groomed and proper, no wonder he hadn't approved of her nurses when their leader was nothing but a mess. She tore at the tangle, suddenly those strands of hair were to blame for everything, the very symbol for all of her shortcomings. Her scalp burned as she pulled at it, might as well pull out the whole chunk of hair, a disgusting bald spot would be a perfect match for all of her disgusting shortcomings.

Dammit!

She slammed the brush down on the table, leaned her head in her hands, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Her father deserved better, not this failure of a daughter, such a disappointment. He had been so kind her entire life, treating her no different than a son. The son he should have had. He deserved a son, one that would make him proud. And he deserved a wife who wasn't a lush. A pang of guilt shot through Margaret, fast, like a whip.

"Sorry, mom, I love you," she whispered, and it was almost completely true.

Her parents had gone to BJ's reunion together for her, and this was how she repaid them.

Her father didn't want to spend time with her, and she had no one to blame but herself.
She wished she could just erase herself, start over at least. Transform. The cold in her body had turned to icy pricks, poking at her bones from the inside. It was unbearable, like tiny teeth gnawing at her. She got up and walked over to the door again. More than anything, she wanted to head outside, wanted to run til her legs screamed, run away from herself, but where could she go? What if she ran into her father? That would be embarrassing for him, she couldn't risk it.

She turned, and let her eyes fall on the pictures on the wall. The precious old one of her father and grandfather. Her parents on their wedding day. Her and her father the day she made Major. He had been so proud of her that day, had looked taller than ever. Would he ever look at her like that again? She sniffled, God, could she just stop crying already?
When she was little, her father always told her she did good when she didn't cry. Like when she broke her arm at school. He had looked so proud of her then too, when the kind nurse told him that Margaret hadn't shed one tear. He had even taken her out for ice cream sundaes on their way home from the hospital. It had been the best afternoon, even though her arm still really hurt, and the cast was huge and heavy. 'There's my brave little soldier', he said, that whole summer he repeated it. Told his friends about his brave little girl who didn't cry, made her show them her cast. Margaret could still remember the warm blossom of pride in her chest, the one that had bloomed even when it felt like her arm was slowly rotting away in the summer heat. It was all worth it.

And now, she had made it perfectly clear that the brave little soldier grew up to be completely incompetent, a failure in the OR and out of it.

She drew a deep breath and held it til her lungs started to burn. She wanted to get drunk. Clear her head by making it go fuzzy, make the world spin. She wanted someone to look at her, actually see her in some way, in any way. Make her feel like she was good enough in some way, in any way.
Such a familiar feeling, it emanated from her bones, from the very core of her. The rush of having the undivided attention of an older man in uniform. A part of her always wanted them to just listen, to ask, perhaps, but that was never what they wanted, and Margaret Houlihan had learned to adapt early on. Take what she could get, give what she could give. In some way, in any way.
Could she ask Pierce to come over? No, she didn't have patience for him. Why did he always have to be in that disgusting bathrobe? He couldn't drop his stupid, rebellious act for five minutes, not even when he knew her father was coming? They were friends, supposedly, wasn't that what he said? He was gonna lend her a 'Y' for sympathy, he was perfectly happy being undressed with her, doing the thing only special friends did, but he couldn't dress like a normal person even once for her?

The piercing clatter of instruments falling to the floor filled her head again, and it was enough to make her feel sick.
At least Pierce knew how to do his job.

She went over to her vanity, big word for a rackety table and a mirror that kept falling over, and sat back down, stared at herself again.

It was so stupid, the time she had spent planning, preparing, dreaming. Like a little kid wanting to show off a school project. 'Look dad, look at my nurses, aren't they great? This is where I work dad, and look, I have shiny leaves on my collar, tell me I did good'!

Pathetic.

She stared at her face. Her mother, she looked like her mother. People had commented on that her entire life, sometimes jokingly, sometimes quite insulting. 'You sure you were there at the time of conception, Al?' Slaps on the shoulders and that special laugh only men shared.
'You are just like your father,' her mother used to yell at her, though, whenever Margaret misbehaved. Or simply existed, depending on her mother's mood. And it was all true, Margaret was nothing like her mother. On the inside, it was all Houlihan. Brave, determined, and strong. Stubborn.
'What do you think your father would say is he was here'? Her mother's voice echoed through Margaret's mind again. As a child, she never knew what to say when her mother got like that, only that she had disappointed them both in some way, and it always made her shrink. The thought that her father was disappointed in her was unbearable. Then and now.

"Dad would say nothing, mom," Margaret mumbled. "He isn't very interested in talking to me at all."

She grabbed her brush and began to work on the tangle again, slow, and methodical now. This needed to stop, this self-pity. She was nothing like her mother. Margaret would not allow misery and old grievances to take over, she would not dwell on her own shortcomings, she would simply have to try harder. She was all Houlihan, and a Houlihan could adapt. Overcome.
Tomorrow would be better, she would make sure of it. She could bring her father breakfast; he would like that. They could talk then, or not talk, completely up to him. She would not push, not let her mouth run. No stupid questions, no comments. She would be prim and proper, act like an adult, not an overly excited child.

There, her hair was perfect. She was gonna be perfect, better than perfect. The daughter her father deserved. She raised her chin and stared at herself again. Gaze firm, determined. Just like her father.

"See you tomorrow, dad, I love you," she whispered. "I'm sorry"

Her stupid, treacherous voice broke. Pathetic.