“That makes it worse, Mom. Not better. You were counting on us being desperate enough to send me back to a man who lied to my face for eight months.”

Adam had come up quietly beside me at some point. He didn’t take over, didn’t puff up, didn’t try to handle it for me.

He just stood there, a steady presence at my shoulder, close enough that I could feel it.

A teacher approached and asked, carefully, whether everything was all right and whether I needed anything.

“These visitors are leaving,” I said. “My daughter is going to present her work without having to look at the people who made her feel disposable.”

My father turned away first.