Chapter 8 - My Father Wanted To Make My Decision For Me Too
Dad wanted me discharged to his house.
He had already made calls.
Of course.
“You have the downstairs bedroom.”
“Dad.”
“I'll get a bassinet.”
“We have one.”
“Not that one.”
I stared.
He stopped.
We were alone except for the baby.
Claire had stepped out.
“Do you hear yourself?”
Lorenzo frowned.
“I’m trying to help.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
Dad had spent my childhood helping ahead of questions.
I was sixteen when he called my soccer coach because I was upset about playing time.
Nineteen when he threatened to drive three hours because my roommate smoked inside.
Twenty-five when he told Julian:
If you ever hurt my daughter—
I had been furious.
Not because the warning was wrong.
Because everyone kept speaking around me like I was valuable property.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I may not go to your house.”
His face changed.
“Where else?”
“I don't know.”
“You just had a baby.”
“I know.”
“Julian hit you.”
“I know.”
“Victor—”
“I know.”
He stood.
Then caught himself.
Sat.
Good.
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“I already decided.”
“Yes.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“It's hard.”
“What?”
“Watching somebody hurt you and then waiting for permission.”
That sentence was honest enough that my anger softened.
“I'm not asking you to stop caring.”
“I know.”
“I'm asking you not to turn caring into ownership.”
Dad looked toward his granddaughter.
“Seems to be going around.”
I almost laughed.
Then he asked:
“Did you know about Julian before today?”
I stared.
“What part?”
“The temper.”
There.
I looked down.
“Some.”
“How much?”
“He punched the pantry door.”
Dad's jaw tightened.
“Six weeks ago.”
“Anything else?”
“He grabbed my keys once.”
“Why?”
“I was leaving during an argument.”
Dad stood.
“Sit.”
He looked at me.
I repeated:
“Sit.”
He did.
“Did he ever hit you before today?”
“No.”
“Threaten?”
“Not exactly.”
“Control money?”
“No.”
“Your phone?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I took time.
“He made every boundary expensive.”
Dad's face changed.
If I didn't want Victor at dinner, Julian sulked for a day.
If I didn't answer immediately, he accused me of making him anxious.
If I wanted Christmas with Dad, he said his family had “more tradition.”
Nothing dramatic enough to explain to someone who loves headlines.
Enough to teach me that peace came faster when I yielded.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I looked at him.
“Because you would do exactly what you did today.”
His eyes moved toward the overturned-cart room we had left behind.
“You'd come in swinging.”
“He swung first.”
“Dad.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You'd make it bigger.”
“Maybe it needed bigger.”
“Maybe.”
I nodded.
“But I needed my choices bigger.”
He understood.
Eventually.
Then:
“What do you want?”
I looked at my sleeping daughter.
“I want Julian nowhere near us tonight.”
“Done.”
“No.”
Dad stopped.
“I'll tell Claire.”
Right.
My decision.
“What else?”
“I want Victor blocked completely.”
“Okay.”
“I want to name her.”
Dad smiled.
“You haven't?”
“No.”
Julian and I had a shortlist.
All boy names.
Because apparently he had known more than I did.
I looked at my daughter.
Tiny nose.
One fist against her chest.
“What name?”
Dad asked.
I thought.
“Grace.”
He smiled.
“Your mother would've liked that.”
My throat tightened.
Mom had died eight years earlier.
Grace Morales?
Grace Hayes?
I stopped.
There it was.
Even a name could become a battlefield if I let other people make it one.
“Just Grace tonight.”
Dad nodded.
“Just Grace.”
Then Claire returned.
I told her myself:
“No Julian. No Victor. My father can stay if I ask him to.”
Dad raised an eyebrow.
“You asking?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
May you like
He stayed.
That was the first time all day protection felt like something I had chosen.
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