She lay in her bed, hearing the words of her father, recorded word for word in the deep and shallow recesses of her mind. Those were words she wouldn’t forget in a hundred years. So hateful. So hurtful. Did her parents really hate her that much? “You’re a screw-up Daphne,” he’d barked from behind the wheel of the Escalade. “You have no respect. No morals. No conscience. How could you do this to your mother and me? How could you do this to yourself? You say you want to be treated like an adult, but you refuse to act like one. A bratty, spoiled child is what you are. A selfish brat with no concern for others. If it weren’t for your mother’s and my careers, we would have let you rot in juvie years ago. We should have. When are you ever going to grow up?” Daphne had silently cried all the way home in the passenger seat of the Escalade, while her mother had driven the BMW. But she kept her face pointed to the side, staring out the window, so her father wouldn’t see the tears, though the glistening on her cheeks was difficult to mask in the reflection of streetlamps and oncoming headlights. She refused to let him see the powerful effect his words had on her.
