Part 25

Emma’s first semester moved fast. Texts came in bursts—photos, homework, videos of laughter, life expanding beyond fear.

Late October, she called after midnight.

“Grandpa Vin?” Small, swallowed by distance.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just… someone asked about my dad.”

“Who?”

“A guy in the dorm. He overheard, googled, found articles.”

The world doesn’t let you outgrow headlines.

“What did you say?”

“My dad’s in prison. He threatened a child. That child was me.”

Silence.

“I’m not embarrassed,” she said. “I’m mad. Why do I have to be strong because he was a monster?”

“You shouldn’t have to,” I said softly.

“But I am.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “You are.”

We talked through awkwardness, anger, unfairness. Her voice brightened.

“Also, I joined a study group. Professor talked about load paths in infrastructure. Made me think of you.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah. He said a bridge fails where stress concentrates. Like families.”

I leaned back. “Your professor sounds smart.”