She just wants him to apologize. He brushes her aside again, telling her to pipe down and toe the line. She's not sure what she did or said that brought him to this point, but there is a coldness in his eyes, it's becoming more familiar, and more sudden, and it gnaws at her heart, bite by bite.
Change she tells herself, change for him, find a way to warm the vacant darkness. How did this happen she wonders? When did he change? On the rare occasions he responds, he says, it's her.
She looks deep into herself, into her mind, her memories flood that plane, memories of laughter, of matinees, of cuddles on the couch, of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Tears fill her.
Her mother tells her to be patient, be kind, to apologize because she's younger, and he's fragile. He doesn't look fragile, he looks strong, he looks powerful, and he looks distant. She so wants to reign in that distance, even one tug at a time would be good, would be better, but she does not know how. He's the adult, he's one who is supposed to know, who is supposed to make everything okay, make life tolerable, not be the one making it unbearable. He's the one who yells and cuts her off, who belittles, he's the one who should apologize.
He isn't capable - her mother finally told her.