“You fly down to California, hire a lawyer’s office, and drag your own family into a formal mediation room over a seven-year-old car?”

“I didn’t drag anyone anywhere, Dad,” I said, holding my briefcase firmly at my side.

“You threatened to bring in the police if I didn’t give you my property.”

My father took half a step closer, his shadow falling across the polished floor tiles.

“Are you really choosing a piece of metal over your father’s authority?” he asked, his voice shaking with cold, controlled fury.

“Are you really going to stand there and tell me that years of raising you mean less than a car title?”