“You lied to me, Danika,” Roland said, his voice steady and cold in a way I’d never heard from the gentle, embarrassed man at my kitchen table two weeks earlier. “You told me Marlene invited me to live here. You had me give notice on my apartment. I trusted you.” Danika’s face flickered. “Dad, I was trying to help you, I was—” “You were using me,” he cut in. “You were using your own father as an excuse to get a foot in this woman’s door. And when that didn’t work, you moved on to boxes, and keys, and now lawyers and a folder about tax advantages.” He gestured at the papers on my coffee table. “Do you think I don’t see what this really is?”

The room was silent. My grandchildren, Isla and Ben, had gone quiet on the couch, watching the adults with wide eyes. Roland turned to me, and then he said the thing that changed the whole afternoon. “Marlene, I owe you an apology, and I owe you the truth. Because there’s something my daughter hasn’t told any of you, something I only found out this week when I went to collect my things from her house.” He looked back at Danika, whose confidence had completely drained away. “Tell them,” he said. “Tell them why you need this house so badly. Or I will.”