I set my fork down carefully.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” I said. Calm. Clear. Not raised.
She rolled her eyes. “See? This is what I mean. You’re always correcting me like you’re some kind of…”

“Like I’m an adult in this house,” I said. “Which I am.”
That was when Greg leaned forward. Not toward Ashley. Not to quiet her or redirect. Toward me. His voice was flat, the way a person sounds when they believe what they are saying is so obvious it barely needs stating.

“She’s not your daughter,” he said. “Don’t correct her.”
The room went completely still. I could hear the refrigerator humming in its alcove and the wall clock ticking above the doorway and somewhere down the block a neighbor’s dog barking once, twice, then going quiet. Even the television seemed to hold its breath.

I looked at him. I looked at him the way you look at someone when you finally allow yourself to see what has been there all along, not confusion, not uncertainty, not a man caught between loyalties and struggling to navigate. Certainty. He meant exactly what he had said. He believed it.
i did not argue. I did not raise my voice. I did not push my chair back or leave the room.

“Okay,” I said.
That was it.