“No,” I replied, flat and calm. “It’s what busy people say.”

His smile tightened into a thin, angry line.

My father studied me with new intensity, and I felt the shift in his gaze — the irritation of a man trying to shove a file into a cabinet only to find it doesn’t fit the label.

He had expected me broken. He had expected me small, defensive, pathetically grateful just to be let in the building. He hadn’t prepared for this quiet steadiness.

He leaned in again, lowering his voice. “Do not confuse Calder’s pity invitation with a family reconciliation, Maren. You made your choice. You chose to abandon this family.”

“You threw my bags into a flooded driveway,” I corrected.