Page 218 of The Wright Man

He didn't hesitate. "Course you can."

He stepped aside, and I walked into the house that raised me. Still smelled like fresh laundry, cocoa butter, and the lingering spice of whatever he'd probably grilled last night. The floors creaked the same. The cushions on the couch still gave just a little too much, like they'd been shaped by a hundred naps and two thousand Sunday football games. Everything familiar, everything still.

We sat in the living room. He didn't rush me. Just let me tuck my feet up underneath me the way I always had, and waited.

I didn't even know where to start. The whole story sat in my throat like a stone, jagged and enormous.

So I let it tumble out, piece by painful piece.

The curb.

The locks.

The shit he took.

The art. The mirror. My goddamn mixer.

The way Gavin looked at me like he was ready. Like if Maleek hadn't shown up, I might've flinched. I might've had to.

I didn't look at my father while I talked. Couldn't. But I could feel it—the shift in the air around him. The heat rising in the room even though the AC was humming. The silence sharpening, taut and coiled like a held breath. When I finally glanced over, his jaw was clenched so tight I thought I saw the muscle twitch. His fists were closed. Resting on his knees. Like it was taking everything in him not to drive straight to Gavin's and end it himself.

But he didn't explode.

He just... listened.

When I was done, he asked in that same quiet, steady tone, "Are you okay? Really okay."

I tried to laugh. "Define 'okay.'"

It was supposed to be a joke. Something light to skim over the pain. But it came out shaky, hollow, and the mask I'd been holding onto with spit and pride cracked clean down the middle.

"I should've left sooner," I whispered.

His eyes softened, but I didn't let him cut in. The dam had burst.

"I should've seen it coming. I did see it coming. I just kept hoping I was wrong. After Maleeka... I should've left then. But I didn't. And now—now Maleek had to come clean up after me again. Had to show up like he always does. And he's dealing with enough. I'm just—I'm just another mess on his plate. One more burden for him to carry."

The shame crept up my throat like bile.

"I let it get this bad," I said, voice cracking. "That's on me."

I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt my nose start to run and my shoulders shake. Didn't even realize how deep the conditioning went—this reflex to blame myself first, to minimize, to explain away a grown man's cruelty as a reflection of my own worth.

And then Daddy moved. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to shift across the couch and pull me into his chest like I was five again and afraid of the dark. He held me close, one hand gently rubbing my back, the other cupping the back of my head.

"Shhhh," he whispered. "Nah, baby. None of that. Shhhh."

I couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop thinking.

But Daddy's voice cut through every storm cloud in my head.

"Gavin was a snake in a fitted suit," he said, calm but firm. "And he slithered right in through the cracks he made in you. That's not your fault. That is not your fault, Angelica."

I sobbed into his chest like I was trying to bury myself in his warmth, like maybe if I curled in deep enough, I could forget I'd ever let a man like Gavin near me.

"You hear me, baby girl?" he asked, voice low but steady. "This ain't on you. Not one bit of it."

Daddy's hand stayed steady on my back, warm and sure, like it had when I was little and afraid of shots at the doctor's office or monsters in the closet. He didn't speak right away. Just let me cry until my chest stopped stuttering, until my breath settled into something that didn't feel like drowning.