My father was always an imposing person, tall and dark-haired, with a piercing judgmental gaze. He tended to look at people from under his brow, giving him an almost constant glaring look. He was quiet, almost to the point of muteness, and preferred books and solitude over parties or socializing. He was by no means wimpy looking, rather a strong quiet aura seemed to radiate off him. He had many dislikes, and was distasteful of people in general, always finding a flaw he did not like in anyone he met. As a child, I was always a bit fearful of my father, yet I yearned for one of his rare smiles to shine on me. My mother always smiled. She seemed to light up a room wherever she went, and everyone loved her. Why she would marry (let alone fall in love with!) such a gloomy pessimistic loner, no one knew. They had met in college, as many couples do, and from what I understand my father found my mother insufferable at first. Why was she always smiling? Why did she show such an interest in him, in everybody? It confused and annoyed him, why was this girl not taking his many hints? He refused to be some popular girl's pet or charity case. It took a long time for him to realize that she was genuine, her actions were not driven by greed, but by a genuine interest in whatever she was doing. He soon fell in love and so did she. Now, it would have been such a romantic and heartwarming story if it had ended right there. His heart was thawed by her warmness, and he became a better person because of it right? No, unfortunately, that wasn't the case. He was still the same, cynical and people hating, disliked many things, and scowled more often than smiled. It was just now...there was a glaring exception; my mother. Picnic dates and going to the movies, things he would have normally scoffed at, he endured just to see her smile and laugh. Don't get the wrong idea, he didn't suffer through these things for my mother, he was many things, but a pushover was not one of them. I am fully confident that if he had truly wanted to, he would have objected. No, just the simple act of doing the normally annoying and insufferable activities with my mother, he enjoyed it. Such was my mother's and father's love; un-understandable for everyone but still strong and true, nonetheless. My father never wanted children. Why would he? Annoying screaming babies that grow into brats that grow into ungrateful selfish adults. But he did have a child, me. I suppose he figured that he could endure it if my mother was alongside him. I think he thought that his enjoyment he shared with my mother could be transferred to me. Perhaps. And anyway, my mother desperately wanted a child. How could he say no? I was born a spitting image of my mother, down to her light eyes and pale complexion. We smiled the same, we laughed the same, we talked the same. Everyone always connected us as familial at a glance. While my father looked more like he was some kidnapper when it was just me and him. His dark aura didn't help at all. We may have looked like an odd family, but regardless, we were happy. As a very small child, I felt that my father viewed me with distaste, but as I grew, I thought I could feel him thaw more and more. His small smiles seemed to grow more frequent the more I grew. I don't think he loved me yet, but it seemed he was coming around. Who knows, maybe he would have loved me one day. Maybe I would have grown through my teenage years with a father and not a stranger. We will never know. Because my mother died when I was 11. And the second she died so did my father's budding love for me. My endearing traits, traits that reminded him of my mother, became a curse. No longer did it make me easier to love because it reminded him of his love for her. All he saw when he looked at me was his dead wife. A constant reminder of her missing from his life and his hatred for me became palpable. “How dare they.”, he seemed to seethe. “How dare they live and thrive, while she rots in the ground” I knew he wished it was me instead of her.