When I left my father's house, he looked at me with sad eyes. I wondered why. Here I was off to marry the marquis of my dreams and there he was in the shadows of a crumbling house turning into a dream instead. I wanted to tell him that I was his daughter through and true and he would be proud yet. But we didn't have time not for silence nor for words. So I left my father dusty and alone and silent and never looked back.
When I returned to my father's house, he looked at me with love in his eyes. I wondered why. Here I was because the marquis of my dreams had become blood, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bones, living in an empty house of gold. The reality of it hurt like a raw wound. I had to leave. I wanted to tell my father that I was his daughter still but maybe not so true nor so brave and not so much a cause for pride. So I told him so in silences and in still, small words. My father listened, dusty and alone, and all he said was "I'm glad you're back."
Inspired by Chaucer's Griselda, but also gratitude for my parents' love.