"Control?"
"That isn't what I meant."
"It's exactly what you said."
Dad looked down.
"That isn't what I meant."
"Laura had made her choice."
"At 16."
"She knew what she was doing."
"No 16-year-old knows what 40 years feels like."
He flinched.
"What happened before she left?"
"She knew what she was doing."
Dad rubbed his forehead.
"I caught her at the gate with Thomas. I told her to come inside."
"And when she refused?"
His voice cracked.
"I told her if she walked out with him, she shouldn't expect to come back."
"I told her to come inside."
My eyes burned.
"You said that to your 16-year-old daughter?"
"I didn't think she'd go."
"But she did. And six years later, she came back anyway."
Dad covered his face.
I didn't let him hide there.
"But she did."
"What did you say in 1992?"
"I told her she couldn't just return and tear everyone open again."
"Did Mom say that?"
"No."
"Did I?"
"No."
"Did Laura?"
"No."
"No."
I leaned forward.
"So who were you protecting?"
"All of you."
"No."
"Emelia..."
"You were protecting yourself from admitting you were wrong."
"All of you."
His mouth trembled.
"I was ashamed."
"I know."
That was the hardest part.
I understood how one bad choice had hardened into years of silence.
But understanding wasn't forgiveness.
