I swallow hard, my eyes burning, my heart breaking in a way that feels final.
“I guess not,” I whisper. “But it would have been nice.”
I don’t cry.
Not this time.
I straighten my spine, step fully into the room, and finally—finally—stop making excuses for her.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel small.
I feel done.
“Goodbye, Mother,” I say.
My voice doesn’t shake this time.
It’s quiet.Final.
And I know—deep in my bones—that the only reason I’m still upright is the solid, unmovable presence of Thatcher at my back.
His warmth. His strength.
Like an anchor pressed between my shoulder blades.
Dan moves.
Of course he does.
“Well,” he sneers, lips curling, eyes sliding over me like something sticky and rotten, “guess it didn’t take you long, you fat fucking whore. Figures you’d go crawling to some big caveman to take my sloppy seconds.”
The words hit—but they don’t land.
Because Thatcher is already moving.
It’s like a switch flips inside him.
One second he’s behind me—calm, controlled, holding the line—and the next he’s gently but decisively moving me aside, stepping in front of me like a wall come to life.
The crack of his fist connecting with Dan’s jaw is deafening.
It echoes through the kitchen like thunder.
Dan staggers back, slams into the wall, and slides halfway down it before he catches himself.
Blood immediately pours from his nose.
His eyes go wild—shocked, disbelieving.
I don’t scream.
I don’t flinch.
I stand there, shaking—not with fear, but with something hot and fierce and proud.
“This is the only warning you get,” Thatcher growls, his voice low, feral, vibrating with restrained violence. “You talk abouther. You touch her. You speak to her—or even think about her again—and I will fucking end you.”
I believe him.
