Father sets down his cup. Folds his newspaper with precise, measured movements. Smooths it flat on the table. Each gesture is controlled, deliberate, and somehow more terrifying than if he'd thrown the cup across the room.
"I see." He steeples his fingers, elbows on the table. "And what, exactly, did you think you'd accomplish? Digging through dead people's private correspondence?"
The words land like stones.Dead people.As if Grandmother was just anyone. As if her heart, her choices, her pain don't matter because she's gone.
"I wanted to understand." My voice comes out smaller than I intend. Weaker. I hate how he does this—strips away every ounce of strength until I'm nothing but a scared little girl. "I wanted to know about Grandmother. About Grandpa Henry. Their story. My story. You always talk of family and legacy. I just needed help to find my place.”
"Their story." He repeats the words slowly, each syllable dripping with contempt. "They were your grandparents. That's all you need to know."
"But there's more, isn't there?" Something in me rebels, pushes back even as fear churns in my gut. I lean forward, and the movement feels bold. Dangerous. "The letters talk about choices made during the war. About love and?—"
"Viv."
Just my name. But the way he says it—low, warning—makes me flinch.
I don't stop. Can't stop. "There was someone else. Before Grandpa Henry. Someone named Anthony. Why did she choose Henry? What happened to?—"
His hand slams down on the table. The china jumps. Coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup, spreading across the white tablecloth in a dark stain. Clara, hovering near the sideboard, goes rigid.
"These matters." Father's voice is deadly quiet now, more frightening than if he'd shouted. "Are none of your concern. They belong in the past. Where they will stay."
"But they're part of my history." The words tumble out faster now, fueled by desperation and the image of Grandmother's face in that locket—young, radiant, alive in a way I never saw her. "Don't I have a right to know where I come from? The choices that shaped our family?"
He stands. The chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, a harsh screech that makes my teeth ache. He's tall—I forget sometimes, when I'm not in the same room with him, just how tall. How he uses his height to loom, to dominate, to make everyone around him feel small.
"You're treading on dangerous ground."
"Dangerous?" I stand too, even though my legs are shaking. "Why? What are you so afraid of me finding out?"
His face goes very still. It's worse than anger—this cold, calculating blankness. "Afraid? You think I'm afraid?"
"The letters mentioned hidden treasures. Rescued art. Was our family involved in that?" The words rush out, reckless. "Is that where our fortune comes from? Is that why?—"
"Enough."
But I can't stop. Won't stop. Not when I'm finally getting close to the truth. "Just tell me. Tell me what happened. Tell me why Grandmother chose?—"
"ENOUGH!"
His fist comes down again, harder this time. A plate jumps off the table and shatters on the floor. Porcelain shards skitter across the hardwood. Clara makes a small sound—quickly stifled—and hurries from the room.
I'm frozen, standing with my hands braced on the table, staring at the man who raised me and realizing I don't know him at all. Have never known him.
His chest heaves. A vein throbs at his temple. When he speaks again, each word is enunciated with terrifying precision.
"Those matters are in the past. Where they belong. I will not have you dredging up ancient history. Not now. Not ever. Do you understand me?"
I sink back into my chair. My hands shake, so I hide them in my lap, fingers twisted together so tight they ache.
"I just want to understand our family."
"What you need to understand—" He leans forward, palms flat on the table, bringing his face level with mine. His breath smells like coffee and something bitter. "Is that you have an obligation. To honor the choices made by those who came before you. Choices that secured the privileges you enjoy today."
"But—"
"No." He straightens, smooths his tie. "No more foolishness. It's time you focused on your future. Not the past."
The shift in his demeanor is instant, jarring. The rage drains away, replaced by something worse—cold efficiency. He settles back into his chair, picks up his coffee cup as if the last five minutes didn't happen.
