My father opened his mouth, then closed it. For the first time, I saw uncertainty flicker across his face. Not remorse— but the awareness that the old script wasn’t working.
Lucy peeked from the hallway behind me. Chris stepped in front of her instantly, blocking her view, his body solid and protective.
“This conversation is over,” Chris said, voice steady.
My mother looked past him toward Lucy. “Sweetheart,” she called, reaching out a hand.
Lucy didn’t move. She pressed closer to Chris, her eyes wide.
My mother’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second, as if she was seeing the consequence for the first time.
“You don’t get access to her,” I said. “Not now. Not later. Not until a professional says she’s safe with you— and I don’t know if that day will come.”
Amanda’s face reddened. “You can’t do that,” she snapped. “She’s family.”
“No,” I said. “Family is what you are when you act like it.”
My mother’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, old instincts tugged at me— the urge to comfort, to fix, to make her feel better so the conflict could end.
Then I remembered Lucy in that hospital bed, shaking in my arms.
“You’re tearing this family apart,” my mother whispered.