“Dad, come here. Just you. Close the door.” There was something about the phrasing that slowed me down, though not enough to trigger alarm. I assumed nerves. I walked down the hallway, rehearsing what I would say about breathing techniques and muscle memory.
When I stepped inside her room, she was sitting on the edge of her bed with her back to me, shoulders tense, hands clasped in her lap as if she were holding herself together by force of will alone.
“Hey,” I said gently. “Stage fright?” She didn’t answer. “Av?” “Close the door,” she repeated. I did.
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