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🅼🅾🅽🅾🅻🅰🅻🅸🅰 → Writings → Somebody’s Daughter

My Master sits hunched over on a crude stool at a plain rough-hewn table. The newspaper in his hand has half slid to the ground, and his face is shock-frozen in a helpless pre-tears grimace. His daughter's disappearance has finally made the news, and he can no longer deny the reality of his loss.

I try to find words of sympathy but feel like so much driftwood and frivolous silken tatters awash in the sea of his grief. How insolent would it be of me to suggest I could fathom the depth of a free man's despair!

I have traded hands more than once, with no regard for ties of blood or water, shipped off to merge my life with another new owner's in I-rarely-ever-knew-where... and no headlines have ever been wasted on it.

What comfort could I possibly offer him?

"I, too, was somebody's daughter", I blurt out, to my own surprise, and it is insight as much as defiance.