You are the ballerina with the terrible father, the father who yells and did the hitting in the house before Mom got away. He's the father that the neighbors shake their heads about when they hear the yelling and the drinking. You find your escape in grace.
"Such grace," says one of the dozens of ballet critics watching you float like a feather on your show's big opening night. You're the star of the ballet about the kitchen utensil that comes to life but instead of murdering the whole town it dances.
"You know hers is the terrible father," says the other ballet critic.
"She clearly finds her escape in grace," the first ballet critic says except now he's getting shushed because shut up!
Everything will seem to be going smoothly until your terrible father makes a racket in the lobby then shoves his way past some ushers and into the aisle of the theater. He'll stumble down toward the stage shouting about how beautiful you are and how beautiful your mother was and how they all escape into some kind of grace or other in the end. You'll pause in your dance long enough to catch his drift, then you'll lock your eyes with his and you'll get up on your toes and here it comes, the dance that says everything to Daddy that you never ever could've said with words, the dance that with every bounce and jump and kick-ball-change (what's ballet?) tells Daddy you're angry and you're sorry and you wish it could have been better for him and you and mom but this is it for you two, you're done with all of it.
You will dance and the terrible father will weep with fallen shoulders in the aisle and everyone will say “we were there when a peace was made between a father and his little girl. They might never speak again, but only because her feet already said everything that needed saying and man we had great seats.”
Happy The Ballerina With The Terrible Father Day!