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“I know why you paid the bill,” he interrupts. “And I know why you wanted to know who Reznik was. What I don't know is why we managed to discuss every consequence of this situation without once asking Anneliese how she was.”

The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the clock ticking faintly on the mantel.

Father turns to me.

“That doesn't mean I agree with your decisions,” he says. “Nor does it mean there won't be consequences we need to discuss. But your mother is right about one thing: we should have spoken to you directly.”

I hadn't expected that. I don't know what to do with it.

Mother's expression hardens. “You make it sound as though we abandoned her.”

“No,” Father replies. “I make it sound as though we were so concerned with controlling the situation that we forgot to speak to the person living through it.”

My throat tightens.

For one foolish second, I want to cross the room and hug him. I want this to mean that everything can be different, that he sees what I've been trying to tell them for years.

But he isn't finished.

“Anneliese, we still have a great deal to discuss. Your future, the arrangement with Lenzin, and what your choices mean for this family. Those matters haven't disappeared because we've handled this badly.”

There it is. The condition attached to his understanding.

“I know,” I say.

“Then let us discuss them properly.”

“Not today.” I hold his gaze. “I've been traveling for hours. I'm exhausted, and I haven't slept properly in days. I need two days to sleep, then one day to readjust to being home. After that, we can have our conversation.”

Mother draws breath to object, but Father raises a hand.

“Three days,” he says. “You have my word that we will wait.”

He looks at me, and for the first time since I walked through the door, I feel as though he's speaking to his daughter rather than addressing a problem that needs to be resolved.

“Use the time,” he adds. “We'll speak when you're ready.”

I nod, because it's all I can manage.

Then I pick up my bag and head upstairs, carrying the small relief of being heard alongside the familiar knowledge that being heard and being allowed to choose are not the same thing.

The door to my suite closes behind me, and I stand there for a moment with my hand still on the handle.

I am exhausted. My feet hurt, my head aches, and I could sleep for a week. But beneath all of that, the anger remains, hot and insistent.

I wanted her to ask.

Even now, after everything, some foolish part of me wanted my mother to look at me and ask if I was all right.

Instead, she paid the bill.

I set my bag down and press my palms against the dressing table, lowering my head.

Money has always been her answer. Security, arrangements, obligations, the right people in the right places. She believes that if every practical concern is addressed, nothing important can be missing.

But I was missing from that equation.

Ten minutes after I send the text, my phone rings.