I watched my father’s face, the confusion and hurt rising like tidewater. He wasn’t angry at me. He was disoriented, like he’d been dropped into the middle of a fight without the rules.
And suddenly I wasn’t seventeen anymore, begging him to see what was happening.
I was thirty-four, and I could set the rules myself.
“Dad,” I said quietly, “do you trust me?”
His eyes softened. “Of course.”
“Then come inside,” I said. “Alone.”
I walked in first, not rushing, not panicking. I led him to the living room, where sunlight poured through the windows and made the ocean beyond look almost staged.
He stood by the sofa like he wasn’t sure if he should sit.
“Bonnie,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t want conflict. Your mother—she hated conflict.”
The mention of my mother was a soft stab, but I didn’t flinch. “I know,” I said. “That’s why she would hate this.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
I took a breath. “Dad, has Victoria had you sign any paperwork in the last year? Anything about property? Investments? A trust?”
His forehead creased. “We’ve signed things. Routine stuff. She handles the household.”
My chest tightened, but my voice stayed level. “Do you remember what you signed?”