Once, I wrote to you, Father, informing you that I had signed up with an escort service.
I didn’t; it was a falsehood, but I really considered it.
Probably, I would have ended up like the seventeen-year-old Russian girl in the exceptional and tragic film, Lilya 4-Ever.
I wanted you to respond, to react.
I was just trying to get your attention.
But I received the usual from you: