It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived. I don’t think any other father would have listened to my story, me in floods of tears, without breaking down himself.
I could see the hurt in his eyes, but he knew that if he let show the emotion building behind those depthless eyes, then neither of us would have the wits to do anything.
Instead he stood up from the sofa and folded his arms around me, and I felt so safe in those arms. Arms that never held a gun, but held my hand when the world seemed big and scary.
He carried me to the car and we drove in silence to the doctor’s. Perfect silence: we had said all we needed to- all he needed to do was hold my hand, and he did.

We got there, and none of us said a word about how it happened; my father’s brother. Instead I took the pill with no tears. The tears soaked my father’s car.
My father was, and still is, the bravest man, for doing for me what others would only push me to.