Looking at a photograph taken on my son's eighteenth birthday, I see my father has taken the opportunity to slip an arm around the shoulder of one of his grandson's young friends. The truth is, any man might have done this. But my father is not any man. He's the man whose power I could only deny by never giving him the chance to show it. I had to pretend to live in his world, and acknowledge my place in it, the place of daughter, obedient, at his pleasure.