"All she did was give you a little push and you're still mad about it? What kind of father holds a grudge against a ten-year-old?"
She exhaled through her nose, clearly exasperated.
"Enough. Go make dinner—Elise is hungry."
I looked at them both, standing there like they owned everything in this house, including me. A mother and daughter who had once clung to me as if I were their last hope. Now they acted like I was an unwanted guest.
Strangely, I felt nothing. Not even anger.
If anything, I almost laughed.
"Isn't there a housekeeper?" I asked, my tone even. "Let her cook. I'm a little tired—I want to rest."
I didn't spare them another glance and limped toward the stairs. But just as I reached the top, I paused.
"Oh, and one more thing," I said without turning around. "Didn't you both say it yourselves last night? I'm not Elise's father. So there's no point in discussing what kind of father I'm supposed to be."
I stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind me, but the silence barely lasted a second.
Elise burst in, her voice shrill with fury. "Do you really think throwing a tantrum will scare us? That Mom and I will suddenly stop Dad from coming back because of you?!"