You speak in knives, each word a glinting edge, a father's love whittled to bone, stripped of tenderness. I am the daughter of sharp things. Your voice— a rusted hinge, a saw-toothed wind cutting through the silence I built to survive you. You call it duty. I call it chains. Your hands, lined with expectation, grasp at the child I no longer am. But I have made myself a locked door, a house without windows, a name you cannot summon without it breaking in your mouth.