He went on in that same calm voice, dry and steady as seasoned wood. “She and Evan are coming home with me tonight. Tomorrow we’ll get her into my sister’s rental for as long as she needs. We’ll contact a lawyer about the car payments, and if necessary we’ll let a judge hear exactly how you used transportation to control a woman with an infant.”
Derek dropped the towel onto a chair. “Hold on. Nobody is controlling anybody.”
Dad turned to him. “Then why was she walking?”
Derek opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Why,” Dad repeated, “did your son’s mother have to limp home in this heat while the car she pays for sat downstairs?”
This time Derek looked at me, really looked, maybe for the first time in weeks. He saw the swollen ankle, the exhaustion, the expression on my face that wasn’t pleading anymore.
“I thought you’d be back before it got too hot,” he said weakly.
I almost laughed.
That was the explanation. Not an apology. Not shame. Just one small, useless sentence from a man who had confused passivity with innocence for most of his life.
“You thought,” I said, “that if something went wrong, I’d figure it out. The way I always do.”
To his credit, he looked away.