Then I pulled the gun out and aimed it at his heart.

“I want you to apologize for what you did to me. I want you to say you’re sorry for letting my mother put me in a mental institute for telling the truth about what you did. And I want you to tell me why you lied to the doctors and let them lock me up for eight years.”

My words were soft but deliberate. I spoke slowly, making sure he understood every single word. I remained sitting on the stool, my gun pointed at him, but my posture was relaxed, as though we were talking about the weather.

His left eye began twitching the way it did whenever he got really nervous. He opened his mouth a couple of times, looking pathetically like a fish, but no words came out.

I waited. I had learned the art of patience well these past eight years. I could afford to wait a couple of minutes more.

Finally he regained his voice. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re a sick little girl, Angela. Just give me the gun, honey.”

“Good-bye Daddy.”

One bullet was all it took.