Chapter 8 - VIOLET’S SENIOR YEAR
Violet refused to write her college essay about the attack.
Her counselor suggested it.
She said:
“No.”
I loved her for that.
“What did you write about?”
“Ceramics.”
“You do ceramics?”
“Exactly.”
Apparently she had spent eight months in an art elective throwing clay bowls.
Bowls.
The symbolism did not escape me.
She hated when I mentioned it.
“Dad, sometimes a bowl is a bowl.”
Fair.
She applied to six colleges.
Got into four.
Chose one not based on prestige but because she liked the forensic psychology and digital ethics programs.
Anna would've laughed.
Harper cried.
I pretended not to.
At graduation, Violet walked across the stage.
No dramatic limp.
No visible sign of the hallway except a faint scar near her hairline.
People applauded.
I heard none of them.
Only Anna's voice in memory.
Only Violet at six asking why I had to leave again.
Only the hospital monitor.
Then she was in my arms.
“You're crushing me.”
“Military affection.”
“Illegal.”
Harper joined us.
For one perfect minute, the world was small.
Then Violet said:
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I need you to stop checking the alarm app every seven minutes.”
I stared.
She held up my phone.
Caught.
“Security matters.”
“Obsession isn't security.”
Therapy had clearly made everyone disrespectful.
I deleted the shortcut from my home screen.
Not the system.
I'm not insane.
May you like
Progress.
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