According to he, who gave me life, I show no emotion.
I show no reaction to socialization and to people.
He likens me to a zombie.
He wonders if I even feel, if I even have a sense of humour.
As if I didn’t feel empty enough.
At least now he knows I feel pain.
My father now worried, watched in awe, as I struggled with that which was out of my control in the surgical ward.
His frantic behaviour enough to irritate even the calmest of people, my mother.
I just hope he one day understands that my sense of humour varies vastly from his, and that our opinions on most things will usually be the complete opposite.
And that one day he will accept, that this doesn’t make me wrong.