Pride, maybe.
Or sorrow.
It was hard to tell with him.
“I don’t want you to do anything impulsive,” I said, leaning close enough that only he could hear. The band’s music covered my words.
My father’s nostrils flared slightly. “Impulsive,” he repeated, like it was a foreign concept.
“I know you,” I said quietly. “You’re furious. But I want you to let me handle the parts that involve me.”
His gaze held mine. His eyes were dark, tired. For the first time that night, he looked his age.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
The question was simple. The answer wasn’t.
I looked down at my hands. The ring on my finger glinted under the chandelier light. It felt heavy. Ridiculous.
“I want you to protect Mom,” I said.
His jaw worked.
“She’s going to blame herself,” I continued. “She always does. She’s going to spiral into the idea that she failed Melissa. She’s going to start trying to repair something that shouldn’t be repaired.”
My father’s eyes flicked toward my mother. She sat hunched slightly, her shoulders drawn in, as if trying to take up less space. She looked like someone who’d been blindsided in public and was still trying to find her footing.
My father’s expression softened in a way most people never saw.
“I will,” he said.
I exhaled. A small release I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“And James,” my father added, voice turning to stone again, “will not be walking into my company tomorrow like nothing happened.”
“I didn’t think he would,” I said.
My father’s gaze sharpened. “And Melissa,” he said. The word sounded like it hurt.
I didn’t answer right away.
Because Melissa was my sister.
Because the word sister still carried weight, even after everything she’d done.
Because there was a part of me, small and stubborn, that still remembered us as kids, in the backyard, running through sprinkler water, squealing, hair wet and tangled, laughing like we didn’t know how complicated love could become.
But that part of me was not in charge anymore.
“Melissa made choices,” I said finally. “So did James. Let them live with them.”
My father stared at me for a long moment, then nodded once, slow.
“You’re stronger than I realized,” he said.
The compliment landed oddly. Not because I didn’t appreciate it, but because I’d been strong for so long that hearing it spoken aloud felt like someone naming air.
I gave him a small smile. “I learned from you,” I said.
He didn’t respond to that. He just looked away, swallowing whatever emotions he didn’t want to show.
I stepped back from the table and moved toward where my mother sat. Her hands were still wrapped around her water glass. Her fingers were pale from gripping it too tightly.
I crouched beside her chair, careful of my dress. The fabric pooled around me like a white tide.
“Mom,” I said softly.
She blinked down at me as if she’d forgotten I was here. Then her mouth trembled.
“I should have seen it,” she whispered. “I should have…”
“No,” I said firmly. “You shouldn’t have to anticipate your daughter hurting someone. You shouldn’t have to anticipate your son-in-law deceiving you. That’s not your job.”
Her eyes filled again. Tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks.
“She’s my child,” she said, voice breaking. “Melissa is my child.”
“I know,” I said.
I reached up and wiped her tears with my thumb the way she used to wipe mine when I was small.
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