Then I noticed his suit jacket.
The fabric sat strangely against his chest.
Too stiff.
Too square.
A faint rectangular shape pressed against the inside pocket.
A recording device.
He was wearing a wire.
At his own granddaughter’s birthday party.
He had come prepared to provoke me.
He wanted screaming.
Threats.
Anything he could record and play for a judge as proof that his daughter was unstable and violent.
This wasn’t a conversation.
It was an interrogation.
The birthday cake and fairy lights were camouflage.
My own father was willing to destroy his daughter’s career, honor, and future for a piece of property and his own ego.
He stood there waiting for me to break.
I looked straight into his eyes.
Swallowed my disgust.
Then let a cold, razor-thin smile touch my mouth.
“Thank you for the advice, Mr. White.”
Not Dad.
Mr. White.
The designation stripped away every trace of familial authority.
