It takes a long time for her to recover, and to even start eating. She spends her days locked up in her room. She hasn't been going to school.

It's awkward for me who is burying tons of curiosity under the equally, if not more crushing weight of guilt.

I assumed we would get a chance to talk after the incident three days ago, that that moment of intimacy on the road, with the backdrop of a burning apartment we shared, would lead to closure.

I was stupid to assume such.

Again, I must stress, that having such a perfect daughter for so long did not prepare me for the unfantastical reality that would bloom when the dominos fell.

I wait.

And I wait.

Part of me wants to be the smaller man; I want to knock down Diana's door and scream "Talk to me!" but Diane's face pops up and I relax.

I turn on the TV and turn it off again.

I go to the fridge. The smell of cheese makes me lose my appetite.

I greet the neighbors. I don't have a good subject for a prolonged conversation. Awkward.

I was so close to giving a smile to eighty-year-old old, lives-alone-Margaret from next door, and saying "Kids, man."

The next day, things start looking up.

I act as though Diana is about as fragile as a vase as she exits her room and moves into the lounge.

That's a clear sign.

She's ready to talk about what happened.

I sit opposite from her.

Dear God.

The look in her eyes tells me immediately that what she is about to say is likely over and beyond all the simulations I ran in my head.

"Dad..." she says.

I reply with an eager "Yes, yes!"

"We are... in trouble."

My face falls.

"What?"

She looks at me with hollow eyes. It's as though she doesn't see me at all.

"What do you mean, sweetie?" I urge, a little scared.

"I..." she stammers and then pauses. I get the feeling her follow-up switched at the last second. "I was angry. For longer than you realize. I was mad at you."

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I remain silent. She continues to pierce me with her gaze.

"I always thought... you didn't see me. The real me. You looked at me like... you saw someone else every time. Like all that you admired about me, was that I looked like mom."

Something burns in me defiantly and before I can put it on a leash, it lashes out.

"I didn't—"

"You did!" she hisses, her eyes turning fierce, appalled that I would refute. "Third grade, I began to notice it. You constantly called me Diane before correcting yourself over and over again. You kept comparing me to... mom."

That's not true. Diane passed. I see Diana for who she is. I always have. How can she say this?

My words lunge again.

"Now look—"

"Why are you denying it? Fifth-grade consultation, you signed my name wrong. Mr. June had to ask me if I didn't know my own name because he was so damn convinced my name was Diane after talking to you!"

"But—"

"That's not enough? Really? Dad, you realize that I have abnormal abilities, right? No one in the entire city is like me! But as different as I am, as unique as I am, you still found it in you to say 'Diane would have been more discreet' or 'Diane wouldn't have scored too highly.' I thought when I went to High school, you would change. You didn't."

"Diana..." I stammer.

She flares, then suddenly cools, hanging her head.

"I've always wanted to know about Mom, and I asked you. She must've been pretty cool for you to remember her so deeply. But you've never told me much about her. I barely know her. But it seems, so do you. You've never actually looked for why I'm like this, have you?"

I freeze.

With her mellow voice, she addresses something I buried and accepted a long time ago.

"You've been scared of knowing, haven't you? You want to keep Mom's memory as you want it. So much so that you'd rather just hide me, instead of finding out why..." she chokes, a bit of fury leaking out. "...why I'm so different."

I shoot up, emboldened by fury, but it quickly fizzles out.

How dare she...

Dear God, she's right.

That day.

That day Diana heaved the fridge.

From that day, my thoughts about Diane wavered.

I know everything there is to know about my family, and there was no distant cousin by the name of Clark Kent.

Diane's past on the other hand...

I never knew much about her.

We were young and passionate.

She was perfect.

I didn't...

Before I know it, I'm balling my fists and a tear is sliding from my face.

"Dad?" Diana calls to me, her voice soft.

I hear her footsteps.

She hugs me.

"I'm sorry. I...I didn't mean..."

"You did," I speak over her. "And you're right. You're right. I didn't dare to search for it. I was... scared."

I don't know if what I'm saying helps the situation at all, but my brilliant daughter is mature enough to recognize my intent.

"You're not Diane," I say, hesitant at first. I might as well discover what else I've felt over the years right now.

"I wanted you to grow up and be a spark that lights up my soul exactly the way she did. Maybe I saw myself back doing comedy with you being a part of the audience, cheering me on too. I don't know. I hated that you weren't what she was... for a time."

I feel Diane quiver. I grip her hand firmly.

"But I grew to accept it. I matured, Diana. But, I guess I didn't truly leave those feelings behind..." my words stagger.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't the father you deserved: one who would have tried by all means to know and understand you; who would have searched about and told you everything about your mom, so that she would mean something to you too. I'm sorry I let you feel so... agitated. And it was stupid of me to allow you to come in and out of your own home without telling you how much you mean to me."

As the words leave my mouth, I feel vile. The weight of my guilt worsens.

Diana sniffles.

"Will you forgive me?" I ask.

Diana is quivering. She sniffles again. I feel her tears.

"I... Dad..."

Will she not forgive me that easily? The thought wrecks me.

I turn to look at her.

She's crying. She holds my hand.

What?

"I'll only forgive you if you forgive me first. Mom's past... I went looking for it, and it's coming for us."