Chapter 13 - MY FATHER NEVER ASKED ME TO BECOME A FIGHTER AGAINI returned to my father’s dojo three months after the wedding.
Friday night.
Advanced class.
Nothing ceremonial.
A teenager was practicing breakfalls badly.
Two women argued about whose gloves belonged to whom.
The front desk printer was jammed.
Dad handed me a gi.
“You training?”
“I think so.”
He nodded.
No speech about reclaiming power.
Thank God.
Halfway through class, he paired me with a woman named Tasha for grip escapes.
She took my wrist gently.
My body froze.
I hated it.
Dad saw.
He walked over.
“You done?”
“No.”
“Want a different drill?”
“No.”
“Want me to leave you alone?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Finally, an instruction.”
Then walked away.
I completed the drill.
Slowly.
Not because I needed to prove Thatcher had not broken me.
That was another kind of prison.
I trained because I liked training.
Two weeks later, I stopped halfway through class and went home because I was tired.
Dad did not ask why.
That was healing too.
The divorce financial settlement was almost boring.
We had been married only weeks.
Our premarital assets remained largely separate.
Wedding gifts were sorted.
Several expensive Mercer family gifts were returned voluntarily because I wanted no future argument about them.
I kept the stand mixer from my cousin.
Dad kept making fun of me for that.
“You fought harder for a mixer than a Mercedes.”
“The mixer didn’t call me purchased property.”
“Fair.”
May you like
Humor came back before trust did.
I was grateful for that.
