I listened until the message ended, then deleted it. For fifteen years, I had never chased Chloe for revenge because I had spent too much energy making sure six girls had food, school supplies, rides to practice, medicine when they were sick, and someone sitting in the audience when they looked toward the crowd.
Now the consequences belonged to her.
Three months later, all six of my daughters gathered at Jessi’s house for Sunday dinner. The living room was filled with noise, laughter, and the kind of chaos that had defined our family for as long as I could remember, with someone arguing about dessert and someone else stealing food from another plate.
For once, I had nowhere else I needed to be. Jessi walked over carrying a slice of homemade apple pie, placed it in my lap, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
“Did I ruin your evening three months ago, Dad?”
