Everybody wants to judge but nobody wants to listen, like he used to.

My father held my hand, his fingerprints are worn from decades of hard work,years of struggle,years of pain

Every time he laughs it cuts through me more that his anger does. I look at him just like i used to,in my early childhood, eyes full of wonder.

For once he feels like a dad, not just a father.

I grip his hand tightly in my own, he tells me he remembers when i could wrap my entire fist around his little finger.

I wonder when exactly did i stop being his little girl and became his angry daughter.