Either way from this moment on a chasm was now before my father and mother, keeping them from ever reaching each other. My mother stormed out and left...my father sitting on the floor with his pleated suit pants at his ankles. I came down stairs after hearing the hateful slam of the door. I looked at my father and he stared at his daughter, no words were needed. I bypassed my father and went for a broom wishing to sweep the larger chunks into a pile. My father's hand reached out, and grabbed me. After all, she was a regular contributor to several magazines, and her column in the Daily Prophet had gone to syndication some years before, providing her with a comfortable income. But that income was now ended, and she had a number of other letters to write, explaining that she could no longer continue her column, nor submit articles or work of any kind for the next year. Each time Skeeter signed one of these letters, she felt a part of her die inside.The volume of correspondence was far too. More

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