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Weekly Contest #70
When his prodigal daughter returned, after seven years of absence, my father barely recognized me, so disfigured had I become. When my feeble voice beseeched him, through the car-window-"Daddy," I called, his eyes sprang open, heavy with the sight of his daughter's ghost. "Emily?" he pondered in horror, "is that you?". "Daddy," I cried, "I fucked up." He glared at me and his metal grey Porsche came alive, "I don't have time now," he said, as my guilt flashed through his eyes, "I'm late for work." "Oh, Emily," she used to say, my darling dea...
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