He has never cared about me being taken care of. Not really. He cares about being rescued.
“What did you do?” I whisper.
Dad’s jaw tightens. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some criminal. I’m your father.”
He throws the word father like it’s a shield.
Mr. Voss leans forward, elbows on his knees. “No one is forcing you,” he says calmly. “You’re an adult. You can walk out that door.”
It’s such a neat sentence. Such a clean lie.
Dad nods eagerly. “See? You can say no. I just need you to hear him out.”
Hear him out.
Like the room doesn’t already feel like a trap.
Then Dad does what he always does when he feels me slipping away.
He grabs my mother.
His eyes flick to the shelf where the framed photo sits. My mom, tired and beautiful, smiling like she believed life would be kind to her.
Dad’s voice goes soft, cracking in all the right places. “Your mother would be ashamed of you right now.”
My lungs lock.
He keeps going, because he knows it’s working. “She died bringing you into this world. I raised you alone. I did everything for you. Don’t you dare turn your back on me now.”
My throat burns. “Don’t use her.”
Dad’s eyes shine. “Then don’t make me beg.”
Mr. Voss watches it all quietly, like he’s watching a sale close.
Something in me goes cold and clear.
If I stay, they’ll keep pulling until I give in. Until I say yes just to stop the pressure, just to make the guilt quiet.
And once I say yes, I’ll never get my life back.
So I fake it.
I let my shoulders drop. I let my face go blank.
“Fine,” I say softly. “I’ll listen.”
Dad exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “Thank you.”
Mr. Voss stands, smooth and unhurried. “Good girl.”
The words make my skin crawl.
He pulls out a crisp folder and lays it on the coffee table. Dad’s hands shake as he opens it. Like he can’t help himself. Like he needs proof this is real.
A page slides out.
A bold heading.
