Dad entered.
He closed the door.
Saw the tree.
Saw me kneeling.
Saw Grandma.
Saw gingerbread house.
Then Renee.
Nobody moved.
Dad removed his jacket.
Set it over a chair.
Very carefully.
“Amara.”
I stood.
He opened arms.
I ran.
At thirteen, I thought I was too old to run into my father’s arms.
I was wrong.
He held me so tightly I could barely breathe.
He saw the glass pieces in my hand.
“What happened?”
“You saw.”
“I want to hear from you.”
That mattered.
Even though he had video.
Even though adults had already decided.
He wanted my words.
“She told me to take the tree down.”
“I said you told me it could stay.”
“She got mad.”
“And pushed it.”
Dad looked at the broken blue heart.
His face changed.
He recognized it instantly.
“Oh, baby.”
That nearly destroyed me.
I cried into his chest.
Behind us, Renee said:
“Marcus, she was disrespectful.”
Dad slowly turned.
The room went quiet again.
“Say that one more time.”
Renee hesitated.
“I said she was disrespectful.”
Dad looked at tree.
Then me.
Then Renee.
“And your response was to destroy her dead mother’s things.”
“I lost my temper.”
“You walked across the room.”
“Grabbed a seven-foot tree.”
“And pushed it.”
“That isn't losing control for one second.”
“That took several decisions.”
Renee stared.
“You're making me sound like a monster.”
“No.”
Dad said.
“I’m describing what I watched.”
She started crying.
“You don't understand how hard this has been.”
Dad's jaw tightened.
“What?”
“Living here.”
“With Camille everywhere.”
Grandma Pearl's eyes sharpened.
Dad lifted a hand toward her.
Not now.
Grandma respected it.
Renee continued.
“I have spent two years trying to build a life with you.”
“And I never get to feel like this house is mine.”
“Everything is Camille.”
“Camille’s ornament.”
“Camille’s picture.”
“Camille’s recipe.”
“Camille’s mother.”
Grandma murmured: