I looked at Robert. This was the precipice. For five years I’d watched this man twist himself into knots to accommodate his daughter’s destructiveness.

I’d swallowed insults, compromised my peace, all because I loved him and believed he was just a grieving father trying to hold on to his child.

But there was no grief here. Only extortion.

“Robert,” I said softly, stepping around the broken glass.

He didn’t look up. He stared at the broken compass needle in his palm. It was bent, pointing nowhere.

“Robert,” I repeated, firmer. “Tell her.”