Denise spun around so fast she almost slipped. “Mark, this isn’t what it looks like—”
My dad didn’t even glance at her. He crossed the kitchen in three long strides and dropped to one knee beside Ava first. His face changed the second he saw her soaked hair, her wet uniform, the red marks where she had been scrubbing tears off her skin.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Look at me. Are you okay?”
Ava tried to answer, but only a broken sob came out.
Then he looked at me. “Emily?”
I wanted to be strong. I wanted to say something calm, something useful, something that wouldn’t make this feel even more real. But the second I saw his face—really saw it—I broke.
“She did it on purpose,” I said. “Because Ava spilled juice. And because I told her not to talk about Mom like that.”
My dad stood up slowly. He turned to Denise, and I had never seen a person lose color so fast.
“You said they were struggling to adjust,” he said. “You said Emily was disrespectful. You said Ava was having emotional outbursts.”
Denise folded her arms, trying to gather herself. “Mark, they exaggerate everything. You know how teenagers are. Ava made a mess, Emily started mouthing off, and I—”
“You what?” he cut in. “You poured milk over my daughters?”
“It was just milk,” she snapped, then instantly seemed to regret saying it.
The room went silent.
My dad took a long breath, the kind he took when he was trying not to completely lose control. Then he pulled a small black phone from his coat pocket and tapped the screen.
“I came home because the school counselor called me,” he said.
Denise blinked. “What?”
He looked straight at her. “Ava has been coming to school anxious and withdrawn for weeks. Emily’s grades dropped for the first time in her life. The counselor asked if anything had changed at home.”
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t known the school had noticed. Ava stared up at him, stunned.
Dad continued, “So I checked the cameras.”
Denise’s mouth opened, then closed.
