Not all of it. Not every word Linda had used to make me feel small. Not every time Ryan had apologized and then repeated the same pattern. Not every morning I had stood in front of the mirror telling myself it wasn’t as bad as I thought.
But enough.
When I finished, Priya handed me tissues. The officer’s face remained professional, but his voice softened.
“You did the right thing telling us.”
I almost laughed. The right thing had taken me seven months.
By afternoon, Dad returned with a duffel bag of clothes, my old gray sweatshirt from college, and a phone charger. He placed the charger on the bedside table as if it were treasure.
“Your phone has been ringing,” he said.
I tensed. “Ryan?”
“Mostly his mother. I turned it off after the sixth call.”
“What did she say?”
“I didn’t answer.”
That almost made me smile. My father, who would face a room of generals without blinking, had chosen the greatest insult of all for Linda Carter: silence.
