He found me near the edge of the lawn, where the noise from the main crowd softened just enough to think clearly. I had been watching Theo chase bubbles with a group of other children, his laughter cutting through the artificial elegance of the setting in a way that felt almost rebellious. For a moment, I had allowed myself to forget why I’d been hesitant to come.
Then my father’s hand closed around my arm.
Not violently, but firmly enough to make his intent clear.
“Clara,” he said, his voice low but sharp, “we’re not doing this again.”
I turned to face him, already feeling the familiar tension settle into my shoulders. “Doing what?”
He leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You sign the transfer papers on Monday. We’re not asking anymore.”
