He looked at his wife.
“Did you slap her?”
She said nothing.
“Did you?”
“She was disrespectful.”
The daughter flinched.
The father’s face emptied.
That answer was enough.
He stepped between them.
His wife backed away.
For the first time, she looked afraid.
Not afraid he would strike her.
He never had.
Afraid of what his face meant.
“Go upstairs,” he told his daughter.
The girl did not move.
“Dad—”
“Take your bag.”
She looked at the envelope.
He followed her eyes.
Then looked toward his wife.
“Give it to her.”
The wife’s fingers tightened.
“No.”
The father stared.
“What?”
“She doesn’t understand what’s inside.”
The daughter looked confused.
Her father looked sharply at his wife.
“What is inside?”
His wife’s expression shifted.
Too late.
He caught it.
Fear.
Not irritation.
Not family resentment.
Fear.
The father extended his hand again.
“Give me the envelope.”
She backed toward the console table.
“No.”
The father did not follow.
He looked toward his daughter.
“Upstairs.”
“But—”
“Please.”
Something in his tone made her obey.
She picked up her backpack.
Then stopped beside him.
Her eyes were wet.
“She said if I didn’t give her the money, she’d throw me out.”
The father slowly looked at his wife.
The daughter continued:
“She said this was her house now.”
His wife snapped:
“I said if she can’t respect the family, she can go stay somewhere else.”
“You said you’d throw my things outside.”
The father raised one hand.
His daughter stopped.
He looked at her.
“Go upstairs.”
She did.
Her footsteps disappeared.
A bedroom door closed.
The father and wife remained in the entryway.
The front door was still open.
Sunlight cut across the floor.
A neighbor walked past outside with a dog.
The father quietly shut the door.
Then locked it.
His wife crossed her arms.
“You’re making this worse.”
He turned.
“No.”
His voice was almost conversational now.