I was upstairs, listening to the soft tinkle of Chopin, when I heard my mother's voice rise through the thin floor of our townhouse. She was yelling, and that could only mean one thing. She was talking to him.

I slid off the sheets of my bed, quietly tip-toeing to my bedroom door, and opened it a crack to listen to their conversation. The door creaked slightly as I pulled on the handle, but Mom was too agitated to hear the tell-tale noise. Her voice was harsh and almost hysterical in its anger.

"I can't believe you missed her recital again, Stephen!" I heard her hiss. I cringed, thinking back to earlier that evening when I had played in front of the whole school. The seat I had reserved for him had been empty at the beginning and had remained so throughout the entire event. It hadn't been a surprise, really. I tried to tell that to Mom as we drove home afterward, but I knew she'd read the hurt in my expression. Because it had hurt. The unoccupied seat next to Mom had screamed at me in its blatant meaning. And the meaning was that he didn't care enough to come. He didn't care about me.

"It's always about you, you know," Mom continued after listening to his excuses. "It always has been and always will be. You should be ashamed of yourself! I know you don't care about me, but you have a daughter, Stephen. A daughter."

It was very faint, but I could hear his sarcastic response. "Yes. I am aware. Thank you for reminding me, Elaine."

Quietly taking a seat on the top-most step, I listened as they argued over the phone for another five minutes. There was the typical discussion about his lack of interest in my life and about his selfish nature. Then, he must've said he had to go because Mom demanded that he had better not hang up the phone.

"Stephen, don't you dare—!"

I heard her let out a heavy sigh, and knew that he'd hung up.

It was always the same story with him. Not show up to something or other. Mom would get mad and call him. He would make excuses and say that he wasn't interested. They would argue. He'd hang up. Things would settle down. I'd visit him at NYU Langone—ask him to come to one of my school events. He wouldn't. And then Mom would call him.

Throughout the years, I'd learned not to expect anything from him. I was the one mark on his otherwise perfect career. The result of a one-time fling in med school. He didn't want to have anything to do with me, but Mom had insisted that he play a role—no matter how small—in my life. She said he couldn't escape his responsibility to me, and that it wasn't fair of him to ignore me, especially when I wanted so badly to know him.

It was scary how well my Mom understood me. Ever since I'd learned he was my father, I'd done everything to please him. To catch his attention. And she hated seeing me defeated when I failed.

When her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, I sprang up from my seat and darted back inside my room. I didn't want her to know that I'd heard. She already had enough on her plate, and dealing with me would only make it worse.

Chopin's music still played softly from my laptop. I slid onto my bed and picked it up, carefully settling it on my lap. Then, biting my lip, I opened Google and typed in my father's name.

The face of Stephen Strange appeared on the screen. The picture was taken a month ago when he received an award for his ground-breaking work. He was dressed in a tuxedo. His dark hair was combed neatly back from his face and his blue eyes—my eyes—stared back at me.

He was smiling at the camera.

I closed my eyes and willed myself not to cry.

What I would give to see him smile at me like that…

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A/N: Hi all. I haven't written anything for quite some time, but after recently watching "Doctor Strange", I wanted to try my hand at FF once more. This story will follow my OC's point of view. It will explore a father-daughter relationship and also hint at a Peter Parker/OC pairing. I'm looking forward to covering the movie's story and putting my own twist on it.