Two days later, my father called me after therapy, voice hoarse. “Bonnie,” he said, “I need to tell you something.”
I sat on my porch, the ocean bright behind my balcony rail. “Okay.”
“I spoke to my therapist about your mother,” he said. “About…after she died. About how I let Victoria take over. And I realized something.”
I waited, heart tight.
“I was so afraid of losing another person,” he said softly, “that I let Victoria rewrite our lives. I let her push you out because it was easier than confronting her. I chose comfort over courage.”
I closed my eyes. The waves crashed and retreated, constant.
“I’m not saying that to make you forgive me,” he continued. “I’m saying it because you deserve to hear the truth. And because…if we do this at the gala, I want you to know I’m with you. Even if it humiliates me.”
My throat tightened. “Dad,” I whispered, “it’s not about humiliating you.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s about stopping her.”
“Yes,” I said, voice steady. “It is.”
The last piece fell into place a week before the gala.