With each passing year, I come to realize just how much Diane overwhelmed the withering scraps of my genes.

Diana looks nothing like me.

You'd think I'd have grown used to it by now, fifteen years later, but nope.

It's not like Diana makes it easy for me either.

She's as spontaneous and bubbly as her mother.

She loves to dance, she's optimistic and at her school, she's a rather prominent figure even without taking her stunning looks into account.

It's odd and weird, but I often find myself shedding a tear when I look at her.

"You're just like your mother," I say each time.

Stymieing that part of me is nigh impossible. I can't help it. Thankfully, when I attempt to clear the mood afterwards, Diana finds me funny.

Most of my jokes land, but she gets the best kicks out of watching me turn pale and gawk at her... extra physiological capabilities.

Just yesterday, she won first-place medals for all track and field events at her school.

I've often encouraged subtlety, but against her bizarre mutant hormones and adrenaline, my voice might as well have as much restraining authority as a paper dam.

Diana is enjoying herself.

Her victories feel like mine.

The larger part of me wants to encourage her to be even more reckless so that she can show the world what she's made of.

At her age... at the beginning of the prime of her life, I can't help but want to cheer her on and make her feel as though everything doesn't matter, and only her smile does.

I can't do that.

I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, nor the most stable, but even I know that's a bad idea.

We've talked about it.

"Don't run too fast. Keep it believable. A little more and you'll break the world record," I've said.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"I know it's just interschool volleyball, but destroying the ball three times in a row..."

The best response I've got so far is a nod.

Goodness, Diane. What were you?

***

It's been a while since Diana and I hung out.

I'd been making an effort to bond with her during these awkward years, sacrificing some days at work despite the promotion I got just months ago.

It had been worth it for a while.

Diana and I always loved wolfing down tubs of excessively buttered popcorn to sappy 90s chick flicks.

Because of how often I've had to buy pineapple juice for Diana since she was three, my body decided I liked the same brand of juice too.

Now, nineteen years later, we toast to crappy television while wrapped in thick blankets, piled over each other like worms with the changing highlights from the TV screen blasting against our faces.

The photos from such moments were piling on in my phone, but this year, it's different.

We've been fighting more frequently.

It started as a small dispute about her skipping grades. She's immensely talented, and by all means skipping grades is reasonable. However, with her performance in sports and clubs – which I've tried to limit because of how many questions have been directed toward me about her impressive physique – moving her up a few grades didn't seem like the best choice.

I couldn't allow it, and that lit Diana up like a match.

It was only then that I realized that she's not only been holding back her strong opinions against my own, but she's been feeding them to her 'friends' at school, most of whom are attracted by her fame.

She's told these 'friends' about her unique physical prowess – whose origin even she doesn't know.

That was reckless. Too reckless.

I was furious and rebuked her for it.

That was the beginning of a rift between us.

I've been accused of drowning her freedom in a wall of my insecurities countless times – and yes, it was said like this word for word.

My precautions have finally fed her up it seems.

Whatever I say has been warped into propaganda against her life choices.

I suspect her friends have much to do with this.

It's infuriating.

If I bring them into the conversation, she becomes defensive.

Since when have I not been enough of an ear for Diana's worries?

I've been there, right?

I've cleaned her, clothed her, protected her, educated her. It was no mere coincidence that she's gotten this far. It was me!

I powered through my lank spirits when Diane died, and I did my best to keep her happy.

And she has the gall to say, in our biggest fight yet:

"Who the hell cares? I've never met my mom. What's she got to do with who I want to be?!"

I've never felt both searing rage and chilling cold at the same time.

A part of me wondered why I even brought Diane into the discussion about my daughter, and yet another was furious that Diana didn't accept who she was, or shut up at her mention.

The latter was triumphant in what followed next.

After our verbal bout, she makes to leave the house in the dead of night.

I stand in her way and demand that she stays home. That she is grounded.

For the first time ever, Diana pushes me aside easily, and I crash into the fridge, a bewildered look which I remember vividly, stuck to my face.

Things haven't been the same since that day, and frankly, I've been too worked up to care.