I opened my mouth to respond, but the words did not come.
They sat in my throat, heavy and useless, and I realized with a start that I did not know what to say.
My daughters had something of a father complex.
However, I could not pretend I bore no responsibility for it.
Years earlier, when they were still small enough to sit on my knees, I had spoken too freely and too often.
The world beyond our walls, I told them, was filled with bad men—greedy men, cruel men, false men who would smile while they slid a knife between your ribs.
Only Papa could be trusted. Only Papa was truly good.
I had meant the words as a father's careless protection, nothing more than the clumsy shield of a man who had seen too much of the world and wanted to keep his daughters from seeing the same.
Of course, I never imagined they would take the lesson so completely to heart that.
