You reached the doorway just in time to see Lily standing beside the cooler with a can in both hands, already flinching before she understood why. Your father had come in behind her from the patio, and his face had transformed with such speed it felt unreal, like watching a mask drop in reverse. Not irritation. Not even anger. Something uglier. Something possessive and humiliating and wildly out of proportion to the scene in front of him.
“That’s my soda,” he barked. “Did you ask permission?”
Lily looked up at him, startled. “I’m sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t know.”
Her voice wobbled on the last word.
That should have been the end of it. A correction. A redirect. Any normal adult would have bent down, taken the can, handed her a cup of juice, maybe teased her gently and moved on. But normal had never been your father’s language. Power was. Submission was. And children, in his world, were often just smaller stages.
