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Chapter 7 - The Father’s ShadowGrandma Clara glanced toward the hallway, her expression hardening instantly. "If that's my daughter coming over here to make excuses, she'd better be prepared to walk back down those steps on her own two feet."

Emily stood up calmly. "I'll get it, Grandma."

She walked down the hallway and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Standing on the porch was not her mother, but her father, Richard Moretti.

Richard looked like a man who had aged ten years in four hours. His hair was disheveled, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his eyes were bloodshot and brimming with unshed tears. He held a worn leather wallet tightly in his trembling hands.

"Emily..." he choked out, his voice cracking on the single syllable.

Emily stood straight, her expression neutral. "Hello, Dad."

"I... I saw the news," Richard stammered, stepping forward tentatively, though he didn't dare cross the threshold. "I was at the office downtown when my secretary ran in and told me to turn on Local 4. Emily, I... I swear to God, I didn't know she called 911 today. I was at work."

"You didn't know she called 911 today?" Emily asked, her voice calm and level. "What about the last four years, Dad? Did you know I was in Kuwait and Afghanistan?"

Richard lowered his head, a single tear spilling over his weathered cheek. "She told me you wanted space. She told me you joined the Army to cut us off, and that if we talked about it, people would pry into why you left. She said... she said framing it as a mistake was easier than admitting you didn't want to be our daughter anymore."

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"Easier for whom?" Emily asked softly. "She stamped REFUSED on six letters I sent from a war zone, Dad. Did you ever ask to see them? Did you ever check the mailbox yourself?"

Richard swallowed hard, unable to meet her eyes. Silence stretched long between them—a quiet, heavy admission of thirty years of passive cowardice.

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