Michael closes his eyes briefly.
Not because he doesn’t believe you. Because he does, and belief has weight. Daniel stares at you like the room has betrayed him. This is what men like him never understand. Silence is not agreement. Sometimes it is just a debt coming due.
He laughs again, too loudly this time.
“So now I’m some wife-beater? That’s what you’re doing? You know what happens if you go down that road? My job hears about this. Emily hears about this. Everybody hears about this. You want to blow up our daughter’s life because you’re angry?”
There it is again. The old magic trick. Hurt her, then hand her the responsibility for the explosion. You feel suddenly, fiercely grateful that Michael is there to hear it, because abuse grows strongest in the private greenhouse of revision, where every bruise becomes context and every fear becomes an overreaction.
