...a little more Russet

While I continue to wait for editorial response to two different projects, I am writing the next novel: Russet.

At first glance, I probably look happy in the pic. I am not. I am standing up behind my chair, because I needed to back away from the screen. I'm wondering if what I just wrote could possibly be true.
If it is, I can hope again.
Here:
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           My father.

           He’s got gray-blue contacts, is shaved bald, has lightened his skin and changed his posture--but it’s him. I am sure of it. 

         My heart’s slamming against my ribs, but  he glances at me without interest, then looks at the next row of passengers. I yawn and slide down in my seat for a fake nap as he walks past.  

           He looks even more haunted than I remembered.

           I am about as tall as he is now.

           That feels strange. 
           My father is a monster, I know that. 

           He made my mother leave and he fucked me up past repair, I know that, too. 

           But I saw him.

           And he didn’t see me.