Let’s just go home and talk about this.” Those words were suffocatingly familiar.

Every time his mother insulted my work, every time Dinah mocked my clothes, he’d pull me aside and murmur, Let’s just go home.

Once we’re home it’s just us.

Mom’s old-fashioned, don’t take it to heart. Caught now on a lit screen, his default was still go home and talk. But the script had been rewritten.

I reached into my bag and took out a slim blue folder, barely a dozen pages, and dropped it on the glass with the flat finality of a gavel.

“There’s no need to go home to talk.