I writhe my hands in my lap. Out the passenger-seat window familiar scenery appears—decrepit orange groves and crumbling fences.

“You okay?” Brayden asks. “We don’t have to do this. I’ll turn around.”

“No, no. I need to see him. It’ll be fine.” But I don’t trust the words I’ve just spoken. Over the last few years my relationship with my father has declined. I’m not sure if it’s my emerging bravery to speak-up or the rhetoric he hears from brazen politicians.

“How much longer?” Nine-year-old Darcy shouts from the backseat. Pink, sparkly noise cancelling headphones cover her ears. “Pappa’s your dad, right?”

“Just a few more minutes, Sweetie. And yes, he’s my dad.” How sad. Even though he’s within driving distance, Darcy shares little relationship with her grandfather.

Braydon eases on the gas as the SUV traverses the bumpy dirt road that leads to my father’s house. Tucked into overgrown landscape with looming trees, the ranch feels isolated and desolate. Not the welcoming retreat I’d enjoyed as a child.

“We’re here, Little Miss. Leave your headphones and devices in the car so you can talk with your grandfather,” Braydon orders our daughter.

I worry if Darcy doesn’t have her devices the impulsivity of her autism spectrum disorder will be on full display. Tolerating neurotypical differences in children is something my father doesn’t agree with. He’s said to me many times over the years, “I don’t give kids excuses for nothing ever.” And as his child, I know he means it.

The door opens before we knock. “There they are.” Dad says with a warm smile as our family approaches.

Maybe this time will be different.

“Hi, Mr. Collins.” Braydon reaches out a hand.

My father takes it in his age-spotted one. “Braydon, my good man. Nice to see ya.”

“Pappa,” Darcy says with a confused look on her face. It’s been years since she’s seen him. Due to the thinning of his hair and slump of his shoulders, I doubt she recognizes him.

He pats the top of her little blonde head, but withholds a verbal greeting.

I inch up from behind Darcy. “Hey, Dad. It’s been a while.” I lean in for a hug.

He offers me a weak embrace. “The roads work both ways. Ya’ll come on in. Take your shoes off.” He shuffles ahead us.

We enter the aged but bright kitchen and dis-shoe. So many times my father has made seafood gumbo for me in here—good memories.

Braydon stacks a cooler on the laminate counter top. “Brought you some birthday salmon I caught on my trip this summer. Where would you like it?”

While Braydon and Dad organize the freezer, I follow Darcy into the living room. She’s immediately drawn my father’s old piano. Before I can stop her, she taps one key.

“Honey, it’s polite to first ask before you touch something that’s not yours.” I remind her the way her therapist does.

“Sorry, Mummy.” She pulls her finger back and twirls her hair—her classic she thinks she’s in trouble move.

“It’s okay. Let’s go look at these old photos on the wall. You can see pictures of me when I was your age.”

But before we make it to the photo wall, my father stomps into the living room. Eyes wild, he screams. “Don’t touch my piano. Don’t touch anything this room. There’s nothing in here for kids.”

Darcy sinks into me. I want to defend my daughter. But I don’t. Instead, I feel small—like a child. Tears well. Darcy and I stand and hold each other tight—unsure of what to do next.

Dad shuffles to his extra-large worn-out recliner. He sits on one side. “Darcy, come here.” He pats the space he’s left.

I sit on the shag carpet alongside his recliner. “Darcy, you can sit next to me.” I tell her. Judging by the terrified look on her face, I’m sure she doesn’t want to cozy-up next to my father. Nor do I want her to.

She cowers next to me on the floor. I wrap a protective arm around her. My brain attempts to label my father’s intentions. But no good reason to scream at his autistic, sweet granddaughter emerges.

Braydon joins us in the living room. He’d put the cooler in the car and hadn’t heard my father scream at his daughter. He wouldn’t have been as weak as me. He’d have said something.

A laptop sits atop a side table next to my father’s recliner. He taps a key. “Braydon, I was reading the news this mornin’. How the heck do you ‘splain how this woman running for president was able to raise the money she did. I mean, come on. Everybody knows what power hungry women do.”

Braydon eyeballs me and I shake my head. He inhales like he does when he’s annoyed and changes the subject. “So, Mr. Collins, how’d you fare from that last hurricane?”

But Dad has already turned his attention to my small daughter. “Darcy, let me tell you somethin’. I watch a lot of Westerns and back then women knew their place. Important decisions should be made by men. Period.”

Now I’m the one fuming. Braydon shakes his head to me. I follow his last lead and change the subject. “So, when’s the last time you talked to Leigh?” I hope talking about his favorite daughter will lighten the mood.

His eyes narrow. “A week or two ago. She’s getting screwed by a bill collector. I told her don’t listen to anybody about anything ever.”

“Except for men.” I say and I regret it as soon as the words come out.

“How dare you come into my house and push my buttons!” My father screams with the rage of someone spewing hate onto their worst enemy.

I can’t believe it’s directed toward me—his oldest daughter. I’d driven two hours to see him on his birthday. I’d done nothing to deserve this. “We’re leaving.” I say to Braydon.

I stand and usher Darcy toward to the door.

My father continues to scream at me. “Get out of my house!” His eyes bug out. Saliva sprays.

As I dart out the door, tears finally spill.

Darcy grabs my hand in her tiny one and asks, “Why does your dad hate you?”

“I don’t think he hates me, Sweetie. I think he’s just having a bad day. It’s okay.” But I know nothing about this is okay.

The three of us shuffle into the car and buckle up. Dad emerges and taps on Braydon’s driver side window.

He lowers it.

Dad says with a smile, “Braydon, thanks for the salmon.” Then his smile disappears, and he screams at me again with the rage of a wild man, “Don’t you come back here until you get your head on straight!”

Braydon rolls up the window and backs out.

I fish a tissue out of my purse and dry my eyes. My father has treated me and Darcy like vermin and my husband did nothing about it. “Braydon, why didn’t you say something? I needed you.” Luckily, Darcy is headphoned up and watching something on her tablet.

He grabs my hand. “Hon, from where you were sitting you couldn’t see. Your father had every shotgun he owns lined up on the wall. When he went off, I just wanted to get my family outta there.”

It’s been about a week since that happened. I’ve cried every tear I had for my father. They’re finally gone. I’m on the road to healing.

I don’t have a father anymore. And the sad part is he’s still alive. I have theories, but I don’t know the real reason why what happened did. I strive to be a good daughter and a good mother. I aim to be a good wife. Most importantly, I care to be a good human. And I won’t let men, even my own father, make me feel less than ever again.

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

-Eleanor Roosevelt