He answered immediately, register sharp. “So? Is she fine?”
“She’s alive,” I stated. “Because I ignored you.”
He scoffed. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” I replied, register steadfast. “I’m finishing.”
I transmitted him a solitary photograph—merely one—of the conveyance history, emphasized.
Then I stated, “From now on, you don’t make decisions about my daughter. You don’t control money. And you don’t speak to me without accountability.”
His register altered. “You’re being insane.”
“No,” I stated quietly. “You were willing to gamble with Emma’s body because you were hiding something.”
Quietude.
Subsequently his register went low. “If you do this, you’ll regret it.”
I looked through the glass at my female offspring resting, chest rising and falling in a steadfast cadence that felt like a wonder.
“I already regret trusting you,” I stated. “That’s the only regret I’m done repeating.”
I disconnected and, for the initial sequence in a long duration, I experienced panic commence to relax its hold—not because existence was uncomplicated, but because I’d selected the accurate side: my youngster.
