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He always repeated the same actions when he came back from work.  Cigarettes and  lighter on the cupboard,  shoes near the chair in the bedroom,  shower. Then he said “Coffee”. She made coffee for him. If he said nothing it meant that coffee was good. Then he sat on the armchair near the window, he lit a cigarette and started reading the newspaper. He was quiet. She could understand that  listening to his silence. Her father seemed to be afraid to waste words, so she had studied his movements, his gestures his looks and  she had learnt to decrypt his silent codes. Nevertheless  she had a haunting need of her father’s words. She thought that if she became a perfect daughter, maybe her father would have told her the words that she needed. But  at every goal that she achieved all that she got was a sound, a sort of moan that meant “Ok, good”. Every time disappointment made her fall apart. She believed  that she didn’t deserve her father’s love.  She  grew up feeling  inadequate. She spent her life spilling her love to have love back, trying to fill the empty spaces created by those silences, but she always failed.

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