Every cell in my body knows he means it.
My mother gasps, finally waking up to the reality unfolding in her kitchen.
“Willow! You can’t just come into my house with some caveman and?—”
“You’re worried about your house?” Thatcher cuts in.
His voice doesn’t rise.
It doesn’t need to.
It’s ice-cold. Surgical. Deadly.
“You let that piece of shit sit here and wait for her like a trap,” he says, every word precise. “You let him ambush her because you didn’t think she deserved better. You tried to sell her with her own fucking money because you didn’t think anyone else would want her.”
My knees threaten to buckle.
“You were wrong,” he continues, eyes locked on my mother now. “So wrong it’s disgusting. You don’t deserve to call yourself her mother.”
The room goes dead silent except for Dan’s wheezing breaths.
“Willow!” my mom snaps, scrambling for control. “Are you really going to let him talk to me like that?”
Something clicks inside me.
I step forward.
Not behind Thatcher.
Beside him.
“What about Grandpa?” I ask, my voice steady, clear, terrifying in its calm. “Is he actually sick?”
She hesitates.
Just a fraction of a second.
But it’s enough.
“Your grandfather is fine,” she says quickly. “But Dan called. He was worried about you. He said you disappeared. Did you really just run off with this—this man?”
I laugh.
It’s sharp. Broken. Free.
“Dan is a liar, Mom,” I say. “And a manipulator. And an abusive piece of trash.”
Her lips thin. “He said you were unstable. That you needed help.”
“I’m unstable?” I repeat quietly. “He called me names. Blamed me for everything. Took every paycheck I made for a year and a half. Controlled what I wore. What I ate. Who I spoke to.”
I meet her eyes.
“He locked the pantry. He told me no one else would ever want me.”
Silence crashes down hard.
“And I don’t know what’s worse,” I finish, my voice barely above a whisper. “That you believe him. Or that you agree with him.”
