“I want our daughter,” I said, “to be able to walk into a house without wondering what punishment is waiting for her behind the door.”

“You’re turning her against me.”

“No,” I said.

“I’m listening to her now.”

He gave a short, bitter scoff.

“She always knew how to manipulate you.” And for one hot second I wanted to scream at him — and then I remembered the note. Mom won’t believe me anyway. And I understood that arguing with him was just one more version of the thing I had done wrong for four years: treating his version of reality as something I had to negotiate with.