The father waited.
Then he asked, "Why did you tell her not to bother me when she was upset?"
His wife looked at him.
"Because you come home exhausted."
"So?"
"So she should learn consideration."
He stared at her.
"She's a child."
"Children can be considerate."
"Of course. But they shouldn't feel responsible for protecting a parent from knowing they're hungry."
His wife looked down at her cup.
The father leaned forward.
"What happened to us?"
She glanced up.
"What do you mean?"
"When we were dating, you were kind to her."
"I am kind to her."
"You used to listen when she talked about her mother."
The woman's face changed.
"Here we go."
"What?"
"The perfect first wife."
He blinked.
His wife continued.
"Everywhere I turn, there's another reminder of her. Photographs. Her old dishes. That stuffed rabbit. The way your daughter talks about things she used to do."
The father stared.
"She's her mother."
"I know that."
"Then why does it bother you?"
His wife looked away.
"Because sometimes I feel like I'll always be the second woman in this house."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
The father had known she occasionally felt insecure about his past.
They had discussed it before marrying.
He had reassured her that loving his first wife didn't prevent him from loving someone again.
But he had never imagined that insecurity would become resentment toward his daughter.
He spoke carefully.
"My daughter doesn't remember her mother to hurt you."
"I know."
"She's trying to hold on to somebody she lost."
His wife wiped at her eye.
"You don't understand what it's like living in another woman's house."
He looked around the room.
"This is the home I bought for my family. When we married, I welcomed you and your son into it. I've treated him as part of this family."
She nodded.
"I know."
"But my daughter shouldn't have to erase her mother to make you comfortable."
His wife remained silent.
He continued.
"And she shouldn't have to compete with your son for food."
The woman began crying.