She swallowed hard.
“So his father said I needed to learn respect.”
The word twisted in my chest.
“And standing in the snow does that?” I asked.
“They said it would remind me of my place,” she replied—not crying now, not shaking, just hollow in a way that frightened me more than tears ever could.
I took her hand, noticing how stiff her fingers were, how far she’d bitten her nails. Without asking, I guided her toward the house.
She resisted slightly.
“Mom, please,” she whispered.
“It’ll only make things worse.”
I opened the front door anyway, stepping inside as though the house belonged to us, the cold air following like a witness.
The room went silent.
Jason stood near the fireplace, drink paused midair. His parents and a few couples I vaguely recognized from past holidays stared as though the scene had veered off script.
