When Rachel glanced back at him, he was still sitting on the park bench, still staring out across the lake with that look of empty longing. It was as if there was something he desperately wanted to see but could see no longer, as if, though, he might weep should he see it again.
It had been years since her father had looked otherwise. In fact, she remembered the day it all had changed. It was the day she had leapt up, anger bursting from inside her, and reached out, trembling in rage, to pin back his arm and keep him from striking her mother one more time, holding his hand sideways against the sun-flowered wallpaper of the dusk-covered kitchen.
– MWP 2011
Michael William Pahl 