“Um… Yes?” He answered awkwardly as always. He always seemed so nervous.
“Where… where are my parents?” I asked, trying to catch my breath from choking on my tears.
“Father. Your father… he’s in the waiting room, now. Should… should I go get him?”
I nodded without thinking and regretted it, consequently.
I tried to remember my father: I remembered what he looked like, what his job was, that he was a vegetarian before my mom died. I remembered my mom, too. She was young and pretty when she died from breast cancer. I remembered all of this, but I couldn’t remember anything personal about them. I could only remember the things that a common stranger could observe. After pondering this for a while, I realized that I didn’t know how he would react to all of this. Sure, he knew I was raped. He probably knew I was drugged. He might have even known that, according to the fat cop, “none of this was my fault.” But what if he didn’t…