If she had worked hard as a child living at home, to Arlon’s incomprehension, she seemed to redouble her efforts as woman of her own house. For the first three years, until their first child, Nevana, was born, Arlon had waited patiently for this mood to pass, for some spark to kindle, which in his naïveté, he thought would be ignited by his unconditional love for her; to illuminate the dark room that was Durus’s life.
His wait was in vain, and had been ever since. There was no spark, no happiness, no joy, no love. Durus’ attitude towards her first child was much the same as that towards her husband. Here was yet another thing needed to establish her independence from her parents; something that was hers, and no one else’s.
At this late stage, it could be said of neither parent that they loved their children, especially Nevana, whose behaviour, a product of their upbringing, was beginning to force a number of unpleasant realizations upon both of them about their shortcomings as parents.
But Arlon did pity his daughter, for he could see in her a longing that had long ago been unrequited in himself towards his wife, and life in general; an experience that had left him a more bitter man than he would otherwise have become.