My father’s hardness ran so deep that anything tender in him was trapped like a bug in amber. Certain angles you might see it, but kindness and compassion were dead relics buried inside him.
This no doubt served him in his role as constable, but didn’t make him shucks as a father to three motherless girls.
As the middle girl there was nothing to distinguish me.
I had neither Dora’s cunning nor Clara’s charm, and like my father’s kind heart was trapped betwixt and between.
My two sisters each carried in them a strain of that same hardness.