Kendra tapped the agreement.
“You know what this clause means?”
“Yes.”
“You can terminate his occupancy.”
“I know.”
“And the property reverts to your company.”
“I know.”
Daniel looked between us.
“Does Brittany know any of this?”
“No.”
“Does Travis?”
“He signed it.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“Then he knows.”
Kendra’s expression hardened.
“Maybe he knows the agreement exists. But I doubt he remembers what he signed.”
I looked at the photograph on my desk.
Brittany at five years old.
Missing one front tooth.
Holding a birthday cupcake.
Her arms wrapped around my neck.
I remembered that birthday.
Travis had promised to come.
He never did.
I had told her he was stuck at work.
She believed me.
I had become very good at protecting people from truths they weren’t ready to hear.
Maybe too good.
My phone buzzed.
I glanced at the screen.
Brittany.
I didn’t answer.
A second call came.
Then a third.
Finally, a message appeared.
Mom, Dad says you’re being ridiculous.
I closed my eyes.
Kendra watched me.
“You don’t have to respond tonight.”
“I know.”
Another message appeared.
He said the Mercedes is mine because you gave it to me.
Then:
If you don’t bring it back tomorrow, I’m going to report it stolen.
Daniel slowly exhaled.
“She wouldn’t.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t know what she’s capable of when she’s angry.”
“She’s eighteen.”
“She’s also hurt.”
Kendra shook her head.
“She’s been influenced.”
“By Travis?”
“By everyone who benefits from believing you are the villain.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because suddenly, something became painfully clear.
For years, I had been trying to prove that I loved my daughter.
Travis had been trying to prove that I didn’t.
And somehow, he had been winning.
Not because he loved her more.
Because he had never required anything from her.
He didn’t enforce rules.
He didn’t say no.
He didn’t make her face consequences.
He simply smiled and told her whatever she wanted to hear.
I had been the one saying:
Come home before midnight.
Study before going out.
Wear your seatbelt.
Don’t drive when you’re exhausted.
Don’t let anyone make you feel like you owe them something.
And perhaps the hardest one of all:
People who love you are allowed to tell you when you’re wrong.
At eighteen, those words sounded like control.
At thirty-eight, I knew they were love.
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