Author's Note:

Just for the record, before potential readers attempt to decipher this story, I need to clarify that although this is piece is about a fight between my father and me, I am proud to say that I have a wonderful relationship with my father, who is an incredible dad. Many people have said that they felt sorry for me as I had gone through such an argument with him. This has become a lesson for us both, and we have since then grown closer together.

This was written for my English Language IGCSE exam as my coursework, number two: descriptive. To prove that I am not plagiarising: my name is Bianca Ko, candidate number 0223 of centre number HK009 (centre name Hong Kong GSIS).

I could not remember the last time I had felt so rotten, so miserable. I tapped my fingers on the keyboard of my computer, subconsciously writing out an essay for homework, not because I could actually think of any way to improve it, but because, apart from the air conditioner, it was the only thing in the room that was making a sound.

While my fingers typed on the computer, my thoughts were of nothing but despair and agony. The atmosphere of anger and guilt hacked at me, again and again, and I knew that the forty-year-old, self-righteous man still sitting on the floor, three metres or so behind me, was staring at the back of my head.

I continued to type rubbish all over my assignment, nearly crying. I am a bad daughter, I said to myself. I was an awful daughter, one who should have been punished every day for the crimes she had committed against her parents. No other girl would dare to ignore every last word her father said. No other girl would let her father sit against her wardrobe while she typed away on her computer. No other girl would ignore her father.

My father and I had been at this for about an hour now, and every minute seemed like an eternity. Just an hour ago, we had been yelling at each other, pointing fingers, trying to place the blame on one another. He had said something and I had abruptly turned my back on him. I had ignored every little word he had said since the absent-minded word which caught me off-guard and stepped on the philosophy on which I had based all my decisions in my life. He stayed in the room even though he was ignored. He was waiting for an apology. As long as he stayed in the room, the fight was not yet over, and neither of us had won.

Deep in our hearts, we knew that he would win. He always did. But what he said was simply unforgivable. This was not just an ordinary argument between my father and me. This was an argument not for my so-called pride, not for my friends, not for something I wanted to do on Saturday night. This was for myself: my own beliefs, my perspectives on life, myself. Before that night I would have said that my father knew every little thing about me. But during an argument over something small, he called me something that changed all that.

He had accused me of betraying myself; he had called me aliar. To an average girl that was probably as effective an insult as a complete stranger calling her “blind” when she bumped into somebody. To me, it was so much more powerful. To me, truthfulness was admirable. Honesty was more worthy of applause than someone who had won the Shaw Prize. Was it really that hard to see the impact the word had on me?

How could he call me a liar? I thought. Had my mother been there, she would have told me that my father had not meant it, that he simply said things without really meaning them when it was in the heat of the moment. I knew that. I knew that my father had a tendency to say things he didn’t necessarily mean. I knew that my father seldom interacted with children, even as a child: the only friend he had had was his elder cousin.

As infants, my brother and I both preferred to go to our mother most of the time because we felt that she was gentle: she knew how to be a mother because she had watched her own mother. Unlike her, my father never had a role model: his father had been hospitalised by the time he was three years old and passed away when he was nine. It wasn’t hard to see that my father loved my brother and me. It wasn’t hard to see that he had grown warmer over the years. It wasn’t hard to see that my father was really, really trying hard to be a good father.

Normally, my father treated us with a kind of respect no other father would treat his children. He was the one person who would wake up early on Sunday mornings to jog with me. He ranted about his colleagues to us and always told us about his day, asking for advice and opinions whenever he needed any, both from our mother and from us. He treated us as if we were his equals. We debated the latest headlines on the news and argued over small things like what we should have for dinner the next night and where to go for Christmas. He gave us both choices and decisions to make.

That word “liar” rang in my ears again. It echoed and I felt my heart ache each time it was repeated. I stopped typing. My hands were lifted to my forehead now. I could still feel his glare blistering the back of my head. Although it was cool in the room, I felt as if I were being burned at the stake for a crime I had not committed.

It wasn’t just me with whom he often quarrelled – he also had a lot of fights with my mother. Even if he were angry, he would take the time to comfort her even if she behaved like a three-year-old princess. It was never easy for him. My mother often did outrageous things: she had cried in her bedroom for five straight hours and taken off her wedding ring on several occasions. My brother and I could never deal with her; it was always my father who managed to cheer her up even if he were the person with whom my mother was angry.

I had inherited most of my father’s traits. Both of us were strong, brutally honest and independent, but there was a drawback: we were equally stubborn. Whenever my father and I argued about something, neither of us ever gave up until the other admitted his or her mistake. That one person, the one apologising, was often me because I was the daughter.

Now, I wasn’t the daughter. Now, I was the girl who felt like her soul had been torn apart by one simple word somebody had said. Before tonight, if there were only one word I could choose to describe myself, I would have chosen “honest” without any hesitation. It hurt that my father, the one person whose approval I craved, even if we argued so often, would not understand that.

No, my father, being the self-righteous person he was, would not admit his mistake. He would not notice the extent of the impact of that one word. He would see this treatment of him as a sign of disrespect. Even though he was trying to be a good father, he would never understand me.

My eyes widened. Never. This was why every moment was passing like an age: I was causing permanent damage to the relationship between my father and me with every second, every moment that passed us by. I closed my eyes. I would have to explain my actions, explain what he had done to me with that one word later, but for now, it was time to behave as the daughter again. I turned around to face him. His dark eyes gazed back at me, his eye bags as dark as African violets. I swallowed.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” I paused. “I’m really sorry.”

For a few seconds, he did not move, did not speak, and I wondered if he’d heard me. Then he spoke. His voice was small, but I could work out what he said.

“Go to sleep,” he said quietly, got up and staggered out of the bedroom.