You weren't there when I was born so the nurses thought Alan, leaning against the glass taking picture, was you, Dad. We played a game one night. One was blindfolded and the other would lead. I guided with care but you saw it as a joke. And as I tripped and hit into the trees you laughed. I was five. When I was seven Grandpa died. Bu you said I couldn't go with Mom because I'd miss school Which of course was more important. Then I ran away. And when you caught me and drove me back you said I pulled at your heartstrings. One Christmas Alex gave me a dozen donuts. He said they were all for me since being the littlest, I always got the leftovers. You took two later in the day. And instead of listening to my explanation you punished me for being selfish. When Mom died I told you I loved you. Because I knew it was what you needed to hear. You saw me as a child: irresponsible, immature. And now you ask me to be more adult than you. I became what you expected me to be. There is no changing the rules now. As I lean my face against the window to watch the rain I wonder, does the breathing have to stop before the picture can be clear? Jane Brady will graduate with a Master's in English Literature in August 1996. She lives in a old stone house with her gourmet-cooking husband Ken, creative son Sam , her bear-hugging daughter McKenna and her fiesty cat Huckleberry.