“I hope you’ve had time to think,” he said. “Because this stubborn thing you’re doing? It’s not a good look.”
I held the phone tighter. “What do you want, Dad?”
“What do you think?” he snapped. “I want you to do the right thing. Melissa needs help.”
“She needs help,” I said, “and you keep deciding I’m the solution.”
“She’s family,” he replied, and I could hear how sure he was, how deeply he believed that word meant I should fold.
I took a breath so deep it hurt.
“You’re right,” I said slowly. “Let’s make this simple.”
He paused. “What are you talking about?”
My heart pounded. My mouth went dry.
And then, with my mother’s porch-swing voice echoing in my head—choose yourself—I said the sentence that turned my world upside down all over again.
“Melissa isn’t your daughter, Dad.”
The silence on the other end of the line felt endless.
So complete I couldn’t even hear his breathing.
