A Fathers Prerogative

My breath escaped with a final ferocity that told her I was serious, there would be no more conversation on this particular topic. The rage contorted her face, furrowed her brow. She crossed her arms in defiance, there would be Hell to pay for this. I spun on my heels grabbing the door and flinging it shut behind me. I was the father here, I know what’s best, right? Surely the years of watching teenage girls’ faces plastered on TV because of the dumb things they did around alcohol served as a valid basis for my refusal. Not that she cared, she was of a morally superior breed that did not succumb to the irresistible whims of the body. It’s the foolish one who thinks that true heroics mean looking danger in the face and spitting in its eye; the truly superior of will mock the masses that run with bulls and are surprised when the horns turn out to be indeed as sharp as they appear from afar.