Mark Wilson. Junior architect. Polite smile. Firm handshake. Respectable. At the wedding, his hand had rested on Emily’s waist a little too tightly, like she might slip away if he loosened his grip. I’d noticed. I’d ignored it. I’d told myself what too many fathers do—that it was just intensity, just love, just nerves.
When Emily mentioned a “family bonding weekend” at his parents’ place, she hadn’t sounded excited. Just tired.
“It’s fine, Dad.”
Now, that word felt rehearsed. Defensive.
Why didn’t I hear it then? Why do we teach girls to stay polite when every instinct is screaming?
The GPS announced my arrival at 4:15 a.m. The neighborhood was pristine—silent lawns, oversized houses, the kind of place where unfamiliar cars draw attention. Silence here wasn’t peaceful. It was enforced.
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