I stepped between them.
“You taught her to freeze instead of speak,” I said.
“You taught her that silence was safer than honesty.”
“And you’re done teaching her anything.”
No one moved.
Then Emily shifted beside me—straighter, steadier.
“I’m done apologizing for existing,” she said quietly.
“I’m done being corrected into nothing.”
We left without another word.
In the car, with the heater blasting, she pressed her feet against the vents and finally cried—the kind of crying that comes from holding everything in for too long.
“I thought this was normal,” she said.
“I thought love meant becoming smaller.”
I squeezed her knee.
“Love,” I said, “never asks you to disappear.”
