Lydia's Point Of View
"You spineless prick."
The words struck the room like a slap.
For a moment no one spoke.
The phone rested on the polished table between us, the speaker still on, the faint hum of the connection filling the silence that followed. I could hear my own breathing. Too loud. Too uneven.
My father did not move immediately.
His face had gone completely still, the kind of stillness that did not mean calm. His eyes remained fixed on the table as though the wood grain beneath his palm required his full attention.
But his jaw shifted.
A slow grind of teeth. Then his chest rose. He exhaled slowly through his nose. When he finally spoke, his voice came out low, tight, and controlled in a way that made the tension underneath it even more obvious.
"I will not tolerate this insult, Rita."
He said it carefully.
Each word placed down like a stone.
