My Father’s Daughter by Nashla Samaan Aparicio
12:15pm.
Every Friday.
A black Tesla.
A father with his daughter.
I hear the car beep as I walk closer. I push my thumb on the warm handle and pull the door open. I set my backpack in the backseat and sit myself in the passenger seat as I wait for my father.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
12:17pm. He’s still not here. I keep my phone hidden, but I don’t dare to put an AirPod in. I won’t make the same mistake twice. I snap out of the memory as I hear keys jingling as if Christmas was here, but instead of Santa Claus, I’m welcomed by the Grinch.
He’s here.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
He’s inside the car.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
I suck in a breath and try to hide my fear.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
“Okay,” he says, pausing for one too many seconds. I begin to fear the silence but then he speaks again. “Let’s go,” he continues with excitement and I can tell that tone won’t last for long.
There’s no turning back, the car is on drive. The cool air hitting my face sends a shiver down my spine as we drive away from my one possible safe place.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
I sit up straight palms on each of my knees afraid to look anywhere but ahead of me. I know any movement he disapproves of will make him explode. So I stay still in hopes to not trigger the ticking bomb in the car with me; his anger.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
12:33pm. He moved. His hand slid down the wheel. I stayed still aware of my surroundings. He sets the car into auto pilot and I hear it ring. Unexpectedly, he takes both hands off the wheel to grab the coffee sitting in the cup holder that separates us. Fear rises in me as he puts the coffee down to start singing and dancing in place to his loud Dabke music. I want to smile at the sight of his happiness, I want to join him, to tell him how much I truly need him, to tell him my major, my favorite color, my middle name, anything! But I can’t. Instead I’m faced with the reminder of who’s really sitting next to me, so I don’t say anything. I'm filled with the familiar feeling of hatred that seems to be reserved just for him.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
“I have to hate him. He’s my father.” I remind myself in a voice only I can hear. He’s the man that took me away from everyone. I’ve lost everything I love because of him. There’s no other way to carry on. As long as the clock keeps ticking, him and I will always be enemies.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
12:37pm. New record. He hasn’t blown up at me for existing yet. As I’m looking out the windshield ahead of me, I realize maybe I’m getting better at this. Maybe I finally made myself invisible. And then I felt it.
Boom.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
Boom.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
Boom.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
We were on top of the white line and the car was bouncing. He took control again which made me lose focus. Without being able to stop myself, I turned to look at him. I tried to turn back but my body was stuck. The “new car” scented tree hanging on the mirror swinging back and forth like an old clock matching the ticking sound creeping in the back of my mind. “Turn back! Turn back! Turn back!” I plead mentally, with the swings of the tree. However, it’s impossible to look away. I see my biggest fear and he’s less than a foot away. I try to not let the thought that haunts me in, but I fail. It’s like looking in a mirror. The words “you’re your father’s daughter” echo in the back of my mind and I can’t shut them out, so I try to convince myself otherwise.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
I look away before he catches on to the anger displayed across my face. I hear it again, the ding of the car going back into auto pilot and he turns to me. “What time are you leaving today?” He asks in Arabic. “I think I’m coming back with Somar,” I coldly replied in Spanish. No matter how many times he tries, I won’t forget where I come from. I refuse to be one of his puppets.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
I heard him sigh so I can tell that irritated him. “Why can’t you for once talk to me correctly,” he says and I ignore it. I’m not getting into this right now. I can tell he didn’t want to either because we both fell quiet.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
12:57 pm. We arrived. The rest of the car ride was pure silent. No music, just fear. Fear of the timer running out. Fear of him pushing me away from people again. But mainly the fear of us bonding.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
12:58pm. I rushed out. The car is parked, so I grab my bag and whisper “chau baba.”
Without waiting for a response I take off on wobbly legs. I start to try and fight the tears forming in my eyes. When I realized I couldn’t, I started to count.
1...
I’m not my father’s daughter.
2...
I’m not my father’s daughter.
3...
I’m not my father’s daughter.
4... I forgot what’s after four. Panicked, I started tapping my fingers instead. Index against my thumb first, then ring, then middle, then pinky and I repeat it over and over again like a needle going through time.
I’m not my father’s daughter.
I'm outside the blue classroom door now. “I’m ready for the day,” I try to convince myself. I enter the classroom with a mask no one sees and walls so high up it’s impossible for me to get out. Whether I like it or not, the rumors are true.
I am my father’s daughter.