She looks at my hand still holding her, and with a defeated sigh, she says, “If you’re not happy with his handiwork, you can tell him yourself in three days.” I’m frozen where I stand, and I don’t even feel it when my hand slips from her arm. I don’t even want to hold her back. Her father did this to her. Her father did this to her, and I told her I was sending her back to him. If there was ever a fresh row of scars, they would be my fault.
