I could not look her in the eyes. I could not see the faint glimmer of hope that lingered there, and they way it would fade from the vast eternity of her soul when I told her what had happened. I could not bear the strain of it upon my heart to tell her that he had left, that he had abandoned us and cast us aside for a more pleasant pursuit. It is not in my nature to show I feel, and I knew that it wouldn't help anyone back then, either. I merely stared at her with an apologetic look, my eyes doing their best to erase the red lines that betrayed me, and my hands doing their best to dry the wet sorrow that made me ashamed.

    She seemed to crumple, almost. Like a bag that had tried its hardest to stay afloat in the wind, but ultimately fell to the cold ground, she crumpled -- the last bit of hope disappearing from her person, expelled into the harsh world on a defeated breath. She had tried her best. We both did. It was all we could do to stay together and not fall into tiny, dismal pieces as we saw our father fall beyond our reach, willingly walking away from two girls that wanted nothing more than whatever love he deigned to give them.

    I knew in that instant that I hated him. I knew in that exact moment that I detested the very parts of me that he had created. My eyes, my nose, my skin -- they were all pieces of a grotesque puzzle that reminded me of him. I had accepted that he would never occupy that dreary hole in my heart, the space I had taken such good care of should he decide to come back and be the father every little girl wants. I had come to terms with the fact that he would never love me, and could never love me they way I desperately needed him to. I was okay with the idea that he would forever forget my birthday and the debt he owed my sister and I would always remain unpaid. All of this, I was fine with. It was fine and it was final.

    But the day that she lost her hope, I lost my compassion. I no longer cared what he thought, or why he wasn't there or why he could never be what I knew in my heart I had a right to. I knew that I could cover all of those things, that the wound he gave me would close up and scar, that I could hide all of the parts of me I was ashamed of and would never show anyone ever again. But her -- I could not heal the damage he had done to her, or erase the sad moments we had shared together, or take away the unforgivable self-loathing that he instilled in both of us. I could not take these things away and it killed me. In every way, it killed me. Previous to that, I had done my best to protect her. I had taken every step to insure that she would be safe from the emotional ramifications of an absent father, but it was no use.

He had hurt her and killed me and I would never forgive myself for letting him do either.