He called anyway.
At first, I refused to listen to the voicemails. On the third day, I asked Dad to play one on speaker.
Ryan’s voice filled the room, gentle and wounded.
“Emily, this has gotten out of hand. I know you’re scared. Your father is making everything worse. We can fix this privately. Think about our baby. Think about what people will say.”
I stared at the phone.
There it was. Not I’m sorry. Not Are you safe?
What people will say.
Dad ended the message before it finished.
“Do you want to hear the others?”
“No.”
He deleted nothing. Priya had told us to save everything.
On the fourth morning, I was discharged.
Dad’s house sat in a quiet suburb with maple trees lining the street and a porch Mom had painted yellow years before she died. I had grown up in that house. I knew which floorboard creaked near the stairs, which kitchen drawer stuck in humid weather, which window caught the best afternoon sun.
