Poor Daddy

Yesterday was my little cousin's First Holy Communion. My parents and I were invited and, nearly against my will, I participated:

The massive church swung like a pendulum before me. I inhaled and stepped forward, facing a world I did not know. Dressed in a prim blouse and with a lace garmet wrapped in my hair, I thought I looked quite the part of a Catholic. I wasn't inclined to make a derogatory statement and I had no interest in being shunned by my surroundings, so I looked the part.
Finally within the walls, I was surrounded by a marble icing on every surface. It's beauty struck me with a surprising force. There were statues of various saints and in the chapel there was a huge, intricate cross with a life-sized Jesus mounted in a classic, graphic style. His muscles had been pried from his body and his ribs carved forward. There was a strange life about it.
Sitting in a velvet dressed pew with the rest of my family, my father was on my right. As we stood to sing a hymn, he noticed how I stared into the distance and my lips were still when I should have been singing. He nudged me and held his book before my face. I waved it away and he tried again. This ritual continued until the song came to an end. With a troubled expression, he turned to me and questioned my apparent displeasure with the singing. "I'm just not in the mood to sing," I replied cooly, and with that the ceremony continued. When the prayed, I kept my head high and said nothing. Daddy placed the warmth of his hand over mine, trying to get me to hold it. I wouldn't even respond. I just stood there, still and cold, staring in another direction. The entire event was filled with little things like that one, where my father was thoroughly perplexed at my lack of spirituality.
When we arrived home, I began to realize he may not know. Slowly I gathered the courage to tell him, and by the time 8:00 struck, I was prepared. "Daddy, can I talk to you about something for a second?" I said, entering the living room. "Of course, sweety," he replied characteristically. "You know that don't believe in God, don't you? "I said, doing my best to peer up at him with innocent eyes. He said nothing, only stared at me for a moment.
He had grown up in an Atheist family and had rebelled all through his childhood, switching between religions. At last he had "found peace with the Christian God," and now he was an ordinary church-goer. His eyes were crossed with an indescribable disappointment. His thoughts rested upon the idea that his only daughter, who was growing up far too fast to begin with, had fallen into the same tragic patterns as his brother, sister, and parents. He wanted me to be his Christian little princess forever, but it just couldn't be that way.
"Why," he finally whispered. "I would rather not go into it for fear of upsetting you. I am far to cynical for my own good." I said, beaming a false beam in his direction. "What often happens is that I will tell something to an ample amount of people and then just assume everyone knows. Often a couple people miss the word. Sorry, Daddy." I said, and left the room, trying to resist the memory of his expression.