He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You’re limping down the street with my grandson in your arms because someone wants you to feel small.”
My eyes filled instantly.
“I don’t want a fight.”
“Then they shouldn’t have started one.”
He helped me into the car, buckled Noah in himself, then got behind the wheel.
We both knew where we were going.
The drive felt longer than it was. He didn’t turn on the radio. He didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t uncertainty — it was decision.
When we pulled up to Linda and Robert’s neat two-story house, my stomach twisted.
“Stay here,” he said.
“No,” I answered. “If you’re going in, so am I.”
He studied me for a second — not like a child, but like a woman choosing her own ground.
He nodded.
Linda opened the door before we knocked. She was always watching from the window.
She froze when she saw us.
“Emily… what’s this about?”
Then she noticed my father.
He wasn’t dressed impressively. Just work boots, worn jeans, calloused hands. But he stood straight, steady.
“Good evening,” he said calmly. “I’m Emily’s father.”
Linda forced a tight smile.
Daniel appeared behind her, confused.
“What’s going on?”
Dad didn’t raise his voice.