“They called it character building,” he continues.“But it was mostly about breaking you down until you stopped being inconvenient.”
Isla’s fingers curl into the bedspread.“Your mother knew?”
“She told herself it was for my own good,” he says.“That I’d thank her one day.”
Her voice is tight.“Did you?”
“No.”
He looks at her now, fully.“Keir found out.”
“How?”
“I wrote him a letter,” Callum says.“Didn’t even know if he’d get it.Just needed someone to know I was there.”
Isla swallows hard.
“He showed up,” Callum says.“Unannounced.Walked into the headmaster’s office like he owned the place.”
A flicker of something, pride, disbelief, moves across his face.
“He didn’t argue.He didn’t negotiate.He told them I was leaving.That I was his responsibility now.”
Isla’s eyes sting.“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And your mother?”
“She was furious,” Callum said with a smile.“Said Keir was interfering.That I needed discipline.”
“What did Keir say?”
Callum’s mouth tightens.“He said discipline without compassion was cruelty.”
Isla closes her eyes.
“He took me home,” Callum continues.“Taught me music.Gave me work.Made me feel… salvageable.Told me my father would be proud of me.That meant a lot to me.”
A silence falls, heavy and reverent.
“He stayed for you,” Isla says softly.
“Yes.”
The words change something between them.
Isla stands abruptly, needing motion, and crosses to the small desk near the window.She opens drawers one by one, paper, envelopes, things kept because they mattered.
“I’m happy for you” she says quietly.
The remark is clearly sarcastic.
“Yes,” Callum agrees.
She turns back to him, startled.“You don’t defend him.”
“I don’t need to,” he says.“Understanding isn’t absolution.We don’t know why Keir didn’t come to see you.If he rescued me, why wouldn’t he see his own daughter?”
