They crack off the crust that had formed since their mother’s first pinches of hot un-love. The crust melts off them like oil off a pig, revealing a tenderness in them that had always lived.
Molten. It gloops past you, his daughter. And you see for the first time a heart in the heaping mess you call Father.
And as the weeks go on he grows stronger, and you weep, because he gets better.