moment I stood by the entrance.
The next I was between my mother and my daughter.
That’s when my husband arrived.
He took one look at their expressions and Ava’s tears.
Then stepped forward.
He ordered them out.
Dad laughed and insisted it was a family matter.
My husband replied that this was his home.
They’d come to shout at a seventeen-year-old girl who’d prepared dinner for them.
They wouldn’t get another chance to hurt her.
Not today.
Not ever.
He never raised his voice.
He didn’t need to.
For
