I don’t look at him as he slides the key card into the slot and pushes open our hotel room door.

I collapse onto the bed and curl into a fetal position, hugging one of the billion bed pillows to my body.

Jack slides in behind me and holds me. “I’m sorry about that.”

If I say anything, I’ll cry, and I really don’t want Dad to have that power over me.

“When he was joking earlier, I thought it was normal guy stuff. That’s how my dad and brother and Callum act. I didn’t even realize what was going on, and I thought maybe you just had it out for your dad. But what he said …” Jack starts to stroke my hair, fingers like a comb, and it soothes me. “I didn’t think parents could say that kind of stuff to their kids.”

“Does it make you think differently of me?” I roll over to face him, but I can’t look him in the eyes, so I bury my face in his chest. “I know how you feel about your family, and now you’ve seen mine. We’re not these perfect people who live on a farm and sing kumbaya over campfires.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he holds me tight and steadily rubs my head until I fall into a restless sleep.

The next morning, as I ravage the hotel’s free continental breakfast buffet before Jack wakes up (he does not deserve to see me stress-eat butter-and-whipped cream–soaked waffles), Mom badgers me about Parents’ Weekend.

“You don’t have to come,” I say between bites.

“Are you sure?” she asks, a mix of sadness and relief on her face. I know she doesn’t really have the money, but she would give every last penny to support me. “Your father actually paid child support, so I have a little extra money. If you want.”

“Wow, he’s a big spender. First this”—I gesture all around us to the lavish hotel—“now doing what he’s court-ordered to do. A real hero.”

“I heard what happened yesterday,” she says. “Your father told me. Do you want to talk about it?”

“He told you?” Color me shocked.

“He was pretty upset.”

“Aaaaand there it is. It’s always about him,” I say with an exhaustive eye roll. “What’d you say?”

“I told him if he doesn’t get his shit together, he’s going to lose you.” She takes a long swig of pulpy orange juice then reaches across the table to grab my hand. “Your father and I have our … differences.” She tries not to smile. “But I want you two to have a real relationship.” I jump to say that it’s all on him, but she speaks over me. “And I told him that the shit he says is hurtful and misinformed and—”