“Our daughter’s life is already being shaped by this house,” you say. “I’m just the first one willing to say it.”
Daniel’s mouth tightens.
He looks toward the hallway. “Where is she?”
“She’s at Mom’s,” you say. “I texted her at six. She picked Emily up for breakfast an hour ago.”
His head jerks back toward you.
That one detail lands harder than all the others. Not because it is the biggest step. Because it means the process has already begun without his permission. Your mother, who lives fifteen minutes away and has been politely skeptical of his temper for years, now knows enough to come get her granddaughter before sunrise. The house is already no longer his sealed kingdom.
“You had no right,” he says.
You almost laugh.
“No right? You lost the right to complain about my decisions when I had to decide whether tonight’s bruises would show by school drop-off.”
