By Friday, I had devised a plan. I needed to confront my father directly, to hear from him why things had unfolded this way. We met at a quiet café, the clink of cups and the murmur of conversations providing a backdrop to our tense exchange. “I just want to understand,” I started, my voice steady but tinged with desperation. He sighed, setting his coffee cup down with deliberate care. “It’s for your protection,” he insisted, but I caught the flicker of something else in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or doubt. “Protection from what?” I pressed, leaning forward. He hesitated, choosing his words with the same care he handled his coffee. “The world is unpredictable, Laura. This is to ensure you’re always… taken care of.” I nodded, absorbing the weight of his words. But it wasn’t enough. I needed more than assurances—I needed transparency, autonomy. As we parted ways, I knew the journey ahead would be fraught with challenges, but it was a path I had to walk. For my own sense of self, and for the future I wanted to build.
