Present, loving, patient and kind he can give her the gifts of voice, self-respect, knowledge of self, and unconditional love.
Absent, disappointing, hurtful, or angry and he can set her up for a life of repeat performances by a parade of men all while she searches for that thing she knows is supposed to exist but remains illusive and punishing all the same.
So my question to the women of the world is what do we do when our fathers are the later? Do we live forever the hostage of their history? Or do we write our lives as we wish to see them without the example of what such stories are made of? Say we lie awake, burdened with knowledge that we weren't given the right shake, and that more awaits, but then how to create a way out? How to know that which we are lacking? How to dream for more than we dare believe we are possible of possessing?
I ask because here is how I see the problem; without a clear conception of what we are worth, or even the knowledge of our own capacity to be light, how do we dare come to believe that we are worth more? What gives us the permission, or even the hint of a future filled with love and laughter such that we've never known the likes of? And say by some miracle of sorts we find that we deserve more—that we are more . . . what then? How then do we strike upon the task of creating, crafting and concocting the missing components that will someday make us whole?