The coffee maker clicked once, done with its simple little job while mine was just beginning.
“He stood at the top of the stairs,” Maya said. “He told me to stop screaming because I was embarrassing him.”
I waited.
“He said I was overreacting.”
I looked at my daughter’s bruised hands.
I looked at the small protective curve of her body.
I thought about every time I had told her to be patient, to be kind, to give people grace, not to answer cruelty with cruelty.
For twenty years, I had raised her to be soft in a world that rewards teeth.
For one ugly heartbeat, I saw myself leaving that kitchen.
I saw myself driving to the Vanguard house.
I saw Celeste’s polished front door, Marcus’s perfect stairwell, and the kind of rage that would feel good for exactly five minutes before it destroyed everything useful.
