“But Grandpa—”
“Your grandfather was wrong.”
She buried her face against my chest.
I looked toward the house.
Warm yellow light spilled through the windows.
Inside, I could see the dining table.
People were eating.
Someone was laughing.
Someone raised a glass.
Nobody came outside.
I took Sophie’s hand.
“Let’s go inside.”
Her eyes widened.
“Dad, don’t.”
“I need to talk to your mother.”
“What if they—”
“They’re not throwing my daughter into the cold and then pretending nothing happened.”
I opened the front door.
The room went silent.
Martin looked up first.
He had a glass in his hand.
Bradley stopped talking.
Claire stood beside the Christmas tree.
She looked at Sophie.
Then at me.
Then at the jacket around our daughter’s shoulders.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Martin said,
“Well.”
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
“She was being disrespectful.”
“She’s sixteen.”
“Exactly.”
I felt Sophie squeeze my hand.
I looked at Claire.
