“And what decision is that?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He sighs, like this pains him.
“Leaving,” he says simply, “before things become complicated, before attachments deepen, and before questions start being asked that no one here is prepared to answer.”
Anger flares hot in my chest, but I keep my voice steady.
“You don’t get to decide where I belong,” I say, “and the twins don’t need you managing their lives.”
“No,” he agrees quietly, “they don’t need me, but they also don’t need you.”
That one lands harder, because it’s said without cruelty, like a fact he’s already accepted.
“They were fine before you arrived,” he continues, “stable, focused, and unburdened, and now their priorities are shifting in ways that will cost them, and the pack, far more than you real
