He sat back in his seat and clenched his hands together. He wanted to shout 
at his father, to seize him, to spin him away from his placid position of 
staring out the window. The impulse building in him was tremendous, both 
unexpected and dangerous. He wanted to flail his fists at his father’s back,
anything to get his attention, to show how angry and hurt his father’s word made
him. But Peter did nothing, for deep within his heart, he feared that his father 
might be right. "Happiness isn’t..." his father had said. True? Peter’s
mother had died at the moment of his birth.