In the darkness, he was pressed to me on the couch. Small breath sounds told me he was asleep. My hand went through his hair, and he didn't stir. It went down, trailing on the back of his neck, found his white shirt, slipped into the top of his overalls. So warm. My other hand brought the blanket up, covering him some more.

My dear Sana. What would I have done without him? I realized while I was talking to my mom and sister tonight, that I wouldn't have been able to talk to them like that without him. If none of this had ever happened, we wouldn't be able to joke and laugh together. We wouldn't be together tonight, and I'd be off somewhere else living my life.

This is a better life. No matter what happens, this is a better life, and I realized that tonight. I knew it was good already, but talking to them like that... It was so natural. They told me I was pretty, and we joked about makeup and clothes. There wasn't anything odd. They didn't treat me any different. I never would have dreamed... I never would have guessed. Without him, I never would have told them about myself. I wouldn't have had the confidence.

Together like this. That's all I want. To tell my papa next is unthinkable, but can he give me the courage? Can I do it, too? It seems so easy, this life. Everyone loves me, no one is scared. No one tells me it isn't right, or that I shouldn't do it. They love me. But, with him, it is different. My papa...

A long time ago, something happened. If I close my eyes, I can see it clearly. I was so young, but it is a vivid memory.

I almost don't remember when I started dancing. I don't remember the first time I put on a kimono. I remember my sisters with me in the room, watching our dancing teacher make beautiful shapes. She taught all three of us, and I was the only eager pupil. My sisters wanted to play around and hit each other with whatever she gave them to dance with. Instead, I stared up at her and wanted to know what's next. This, she did not expect.

My papa said dancing is for girls. This kind of dance. There's dancing for boys, and if I liked dance, I should dance that way instead. There was no more talk of it, and I continued to dance. My sisters told my mom they didn't want to dance anymore. They were bored of it, it was a chore to do every week. So, I started going by myself. My mom would drive me there, and every time I would run inside my teacher's house and hug her legs tightly. I was that young. I only reached her waist.

We'd stand side by side, and I'd look up to her. Watching her beautiful arms, trying to copy her. She'd correct my form, and tell me it was important to find my own dance. Don't copy her exactly, but find my own way of moving. That every dance is personal, important to yourself. It means something to only you, and in that way you can tell everyone else. The more personal you make it, the more it means. I didn't know what that meant for a long time, but I know now that it means it can make people feel things. It can transcend us, and become something else. It becomes personal for them, too, because they already know the meaning in their own hearts. They know those feelings, but they can't express them. In that way, it moves them more than words can say.

I'd find my own dance every week. I loved my teacher, and she loved me. She'd invite me to her back porch at the end, and we'd have a snack together while we waited for my mom. There, she'd tell me stories about the dance. Folktales and poems, stories about great romances between royals and nobility, between gods and goddesses. I'd be so transfixed, I wouldn't even see my mom standing in front of me, waiting to take me home.

In a way, she was like a grandmother to me, though I know now she was much older than my grandmother at the time. I found out later that she'd been a great dancer in her day, maybe even famous, but I have no way to gauge that. I've seen old pictures of her, of when she was a girl. She wasn't the prettiest, but the way she posed in dance... You could tell she loved it. That made her more beautiful that a picture could convey.

So, when my papa came to pick me up one day with my mom, I didn't expect him to attack this precious person to me. I wasn't expecting it at all. I thought everyone loved her. How could anyone not love her? This amazing person.

Maybe the way I love her skews my memory of the event. The betrayal, the biggest emotion in all of it. Anger and fear. Sudden fear of my papa, who I'd only known of love. Not understanding him, for the first time in my life.

I already knew my papa didn't like the kind of dancing I was learning. I already knew he thought it was strange, maybe. But, I didn't know the depth of those feelings. He'd argue gently with my mom about it late at night, when he thought we were all sleeping. I'd hear them, though. They'd be in the hallway, and my door would be cracked. And I'd hear him say, "You don't understand this. You don't understand my meaning."

On this day, I was eating a sandwich on the porch with my teacher. She was telling me a story about a deer. The fruit and cream in the sandwich was sweet, like cake. It was so delicious, that I wanted to stay there all afternoon. But, I heard my papa and mom arguing before I saw them. I lowered the sandwich to my legs, and felt the cream on my face. I didn't have time to wipe it away before my papa burst into the yard.

"I don't accept!" He shouted, thrusting a finger at my teacher. She stood up immediately, standing over him, so high up on the porch compared to him on the ground. She looked like a goddess in a yellow kimono, ready to pass judgment. Her face was unmoved.

"Wait, wait, we can discuss this alone, Tetsu is there. Let me take him to the car-" My mom was begging him, something I'd never heard her do. She had grabbed his arm, but he shoved her away, making my eyes go wide.

"You are not taking my son to your school!" My papa raged. "It's one thing for him to dance and dress this way in your house! It's a passing fancy that way! He'll grow out of it! But to show him to other people?! What do you take me for?!"

"There is nothing wrong with dance," my teacher said, talking over him, her words mixing with his. "Any kind of dance."

"Excuse me?! I'm paying you! I am!"

I wanted to run, but I was frozen. Caught in the middle. I stared at the sandwich in my hand, not knowing where else to look.

"There is nothing wrong with what I'm teaching him."

"That's where you're wrong. You're wrong! What will people think, huh? That I let my son go around, looking like that? Learning this women's thing? I thought this was wrong from the start. We're going home, and we're not coming back!"

"Hmmph. Maybe you should think about your son's feelings instead."

"You-!"

My papa went for me, his arm out to grab me. My sandwich fell into the grass. My mom got to him first.

"Go wait in the car. Go! Go on! You've done enough! You make me embarrassed. Look how embarrassing you are! Get out of here!" She wasn't raising her voice, but I'd never heard her use that tone. She sounded harassed. She pushed him out of the side door of the yard. He let her do it reluctantly, but the damage was done.

My mom told my teacher we had to go, but that we'd be back next week. She bowed deeply to her, apologizing. I held onto my mom's kimono, my face pressed to her legs. I didn't know what I felt. So many things. But, analyzing it as an adult, throughout my adult life, I know what those feelings are.

Those feelings were a seed. Taking sprout and growing, wrapping around my legs and my belly, around my chest and my neck. These vines of fear.

As I grew up, I began to sing in the school, being taught by another teacher to do so. Singing these stories that I loved, helping other students dance. I replaced this teacher as a singer when he passed away, singing and watching others dance. I'd sit off to the side, singing as other teachers and students played traditional instruments beside me, making music for dance. I was so proud, becoming a singer and a dancer, but dance was always the one I loved.

The school that my papa didn't want me to go to became my whole life, and I wanted to be a teacher there when I graduated high school. It was my only goal in life. I wanted to grow old and have little students and bring them the love of dance. I wanted to sing for them and watch them as they caught the rhythm. I wanted it all.

But, there was always this feeling on my back. My papa's unapproving gaze. The more I grew and fell in love with dance and other traditional arts, the more my papa disapproved. It was all in that look. I saw the same look when I began to sing and dance professionally. He'd be in the front row, that uncomfortable face there the whole time. My mom would be next to him, her face bright and happy, having the time of her life. My papa looked like he wanted to go home. That he'd rather be anywhere else.

Eventually, I'd give them tickets to my performances where they'd be away from the stage. But, I still knew they were there. I still knew that somewhere in that theater, my papa's disapproving face was there. It made me want to stumble. It made me forget what I was doing, unfocused. Instead that worry on my back, coming about with a vengeance, making me feel like I was so young, dropping my sandwich on the ground as I feared him grabbing my arm and taking me away from everything I loved.

Would he do the same now? If I told him my feelings, let him into this precious world that my mom, my sister, and I had created, would he tear that away? I couldn't imagine a world where he'd approve. Dressing casually in women's kimono, wearing the lace piece I'd bought in Okinawa. There's no way he'd approve. I wouldn't be able to wear a pearl necklace, or a barrette in my hair. I wouldn't be able to put on lipstick or lashes. I'd turn the corner, and there that face would be. Not an angry face, but... That face. It was one of disgust.

My mom thought my papa didn't understand. That he just didn't understand, and if she explained it all, then he'd approve. There was no way in the world that was true. He may have thought about my happiness and let me go to the school. He may have considered my teacher's words, I don't know. Maybe, my mom convinced him somehow, and she could convince him about this. But, this was different. It was so much more. Disapproving of dance was one thing, but for him to disapprove of myself? To have to be convinced that I'm okay, to have to be convinced to love me...

That, I can't understand. I'm not prepared. I think about the wedding dress I want to wear, and it seems impossible. To have him giving me that look on my wedding day? To be holding Sana's hands at the altar, and see my papa's disapproving face? I can't bear it. But, I can't bear wearing anything else.

What can I do? I don't know what I can do. I don't know how he'd react. It's so comfortable with my sister and mom knowing. I want it to go on for longer. But, wearing a kimono like this is too good, too. Laughing with them, and talking about makeup. I want to do it all the time, but he'll come home, and I'll put it away like Cinderella. Cinderella, crying beyond the door.

Blinking. There's tears on my face. I sniffled, and my hand went to Sana's back, sliding there. Hugging him a little more. There's such a feeling of wanting to marry him. Have a wedding, be his bride.

Be his bride.

Too many tears to count. But, there's a block there. My papa's face. As long as his face is there, I can't be Sana's bride. I don't know how to overcome that, and I feel the same as I felt that day when he burst into the yard.

It's just despair where there should be love. I want there to be only love.

There's shame with these tears. So ashamed of my papa, ashamed of myself. My arms went tighter around Sana, and I sniffled, crying again, because of my papa's face.