When we got home, Mike was waiting.
“Where have you two been?” he asked.
“The hospital,” I replied. “Why have you been giving Lily supplements behind my back?”
His eyes widened, then he shrugged. “To help her. She wanted to feel lighter on the ice—”
“Those pills have been making her sick,” I snapped.
“They’re herbal. It’s not a big deal.” He turned to Lily. “I was helping you—”
Lily looked at him, and for the first time, I saw something in her eyes I had never seen before.
Betrayal.
“I kept feeling worse,” she said quietly. “I told you, and you didn’t listen. You just said I needed to adjust. You were wrong.”
He opened his mouth, but I stepped forward.
“You told her to hide something that was making her sick. You do not get to make decisions for her anymore.”
His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. She needs to step back from training to recover. She might not even compete this year.”
“You’re overreacting—”
“I’m saving her health.”
Lily began to cry.
Mike looked at her, and for once, he had no quick response.
“I just wanted you to be your best,” he muttered.
“And look where it got us,” I replied. “Pack a bag.”
His jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You want me to leave? Over supplements?”
I met his gaze. “Over the fact that you pushed our daughter into taking something dangerous, watched her get sicker, told her to hide it from me, and then insisted I was imagining things.”
He ran a hand over his face. “You’re acting like I poisoned her.”
“No,” I said steadily. “I’m acting like you stopped being someone I can trust.”
He left an hour later, carrying a duffel bag, still looking stunned — as if he expected us to apologize.
When the door shut, the house felt different.
Not instantly safe. Not instantly healed.
But honest.
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