Not because my father was angry.
Because my four-year-old son had asked for yogurt like it was a luxury.
And I finally understood that keeping the peace had become more dangerous than breaking it.
Dad stood.
“Go get your son’s shoes.”
Ryan stepped forward.
“He’s not going anywhere.”
Dad looked at him.
“You can come with us.”
Ryan scoffed.
“I’m not going to the grocery store.”
Dad nodded.
“Then stay here.”
He looked at me.
“You’re coming with me.”
I hesitated.
For years, I had been trained to ask permission.
Permission to spend money.
Permission to visit my parents.
Permission to buy something for myself.
Permission to say no.
That morning, for the first time, I didn’t ask.
I took Ben’s hand.
We walked out.
At the grocery store, I stood in front of the cereal aisle and almost cried.
There were hundreds of choices.
Hundreds.
Ben pointed excitedly.
“The stars!”
