“How many times did you ask the nurse whether I needed help standing?”
“You’re overreacting.”
That was the moment something inside me snapped—not because of what he had done, but because he still did not understand.
He believed the problem was the ride.
It was not.
The problem was that he had looked at me—weak, frightened, holding his newborn daughter—and decided someone else’s appetite mattered more.
“No more,” I said.
He frowned.
“No more what?”
“No more pretending this is a marriage.”
He laughed.
It was a short, dismissive sound.
“You’re emotional.”
“Yes,” I said. “And that’s exactly why I see clearly now.”
My father placed the suitcase by the door.
Grant stared at it.
“You packed my things?”
“I did,” my father replied.
Grant stepped toward him.
“This is my house.”
“It’s also hers,” my father said. “And she asked you to leave.”
“You don’t get to come into my home and throw me out.”
“I didn’t make the decision.”
My father looked toward me.
“She did.”
Grant turned.
For the first time that night, he seemed to realize I was not waiting for him to explain everything away.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re breaking our family over one dinner?”
I looked down at Lily.
She was small, warm, innocent, depending on us to teach her what love looked like.
“No,” I said. “You broke it when you chose your parents over us.”
“My parents are part of this family.”
“I know. You have reminded me every day since we got married.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means your mother chose our wedding venue. Your father chose where we spent Christmas. They chose when they visited the hospital. They chose tonight’s dinner.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“And every time I objected, you told me not to be difficult.”
“Because you were being difficult.”
The words hung between us.
My father’s hands tightened once, then relaxed.
Grant noticed.
“What?” he demanded. “You going to threaten me now?”
“No,” my father said calmly. “I don’t need to.”
He opened the front door.
“You can return tomorrow with a lawyer. Tonight, you leave.”
Grant pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling my father.”
My father glanced at the phone.
“You’re thirty-six years old.”