The conversation started out pretty friendly—my dad stated that he understood, and he only wanted me to understand how much my family loved me and looked out for me—but I kept getting the feeling that I was just being fed lines. Lines that were meant to seem supportive, but I didn’t feel they were sincere. I almost felt like my dad was trying to say just the right things to keep me reeled in close enough, because if I were to get upset with him, he assumed I would rebel even more. Wasn’t that parenting rule number nineteen or something? “Your psychology isn’t going to work on me, Dad,” I finally said. “I’m not twelve and you’re not going to manipulate me into seeing the ‘errors of my way.’ I thought you of all people would understand. You’ve had friends with shady pasts. You’re kind of rough yourself. But why would you be friends with these people?” “They’re not in my daughter’s life. Yes they are friends of mine, and yes I trusted them with my very life when we served together, but I wouldn’t let them around my daughter.
