It was awfully awkward, as if my father were deliberately trying to make the conversation more strained than it needed to be. Every time my mother—God help her—tried to make conversation with Em, my father would shut it down, his piercing gaze scrutinizing her as if he were actively trying to unsettle her. The tension in the room was palpable, hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest.
I could tell what he was doing. He was sizing her up, prodding at her demeanor, waiting for a crack in her composure. He wanted to make her uncomfortable enough to crumble, to see if she would falter under pressure. He thrived on this sort of thing—testing, analyzing, pushing people to their limits. But his scrutiny wasn’t out of curiosity or a desire to protect me. No, this was personal. He wouldn’t have
