Chapter 3: The Drive Home
Nobody spoke much on the drive back.
Angela sat in the passenger seat of her friend Donna's car.
I was in the back, wedged between two duffel bags, watching the trees blur past the window.
The other women had split into two cars.
I could see Donna glancing at Angela in the rearview mirror every few minutes, like she was waiting for something to explode.
It didn't.
Not yet.
Angela stared out the windshield the entire two hours.
The notebook sat in her lap.
She hadn't put it down since the campsite.
When we pulled into our driveway, Dad's truck was already there.
Angela opened the car door before Donna had fully stopped.
"Angela—" Donna started.
"I'll call you later."
She didn't.
I grabbed my bag and followed her up the front path.
My stomach was tight.
I didn't know what Dad had actually seen.
I didn't know what the camera had captured.
I only knew what I had written in that notebook, and I knew every word of it was true.
Dad was in the kitchen when we walked in.
He was standing at the counter with a mug of coffee, not sitting, not pretending to read anything.
Just standing there, waiting.
Angela dropped her bag by the door.
"We need to talk," she said.
"We do," Dad said.
He set the mug down.
"Lily, can you go upstairs, please?"
"She stays," Angela said sharply.
Dad looked at her.
"Excuse me?"
"She stays.
Whatever you think you saw, I want her to hear this too.
I want her to hear what I have to say about that little notebook."
I didn't move.
Dad gave me a small nod — it was okay, stay — and I set my bag down near the stairs.
Angela put the notebook on the kitchen table.
"Where did you get this?" she said.
"Lily wrote it," Dad said.
"I found it in her room three weeks ago.
She didn't know I'd read it."
Angela's eyes cut to me.
"You've been keeping notes on me."
"I wrote down what happened," I said.
"That's all."
"That's all." She let out a short, hard laugh.
"You wrote down a list of chores and made it sound like I was running a labor camp."
"You told your friends I was good preparation for real life," I said.
"After they called me your maid."
The laugh stopped.
Dad picked up the notebook.
He opened it to a page near the middle and read out loud, quietly, without drama.
"Day one.
Arrived at three.
Told to unpack all food, start the fire, and set up six chairs.
Angela's friends did not help.
Ate dinner with them but was told to clear and wash all dishes before sleeping.
Washed dishes in the dark with a flashlight."
He closed it.
"Angela," he said.
"I didn't set up a camera."
The room went still.
Angela blinked.
"What?"
"There's no camera.
I made that up." He looked at her steadily.
"I wanted to see what you would do when you thought you'd been caught.
And now I know."
Angela's face shifted through three expressions in two seconds.
Shock.
Anger.
Then something harder to name — something that looked almost like calculation.
"So this is a trap," she said.
"No," Dad said.
"This is a conversation I should have started a long time ago."
Angela straightened.
When she spoke again, her voice had changed — steadier, cooler, like she'd found her footing.
"You want to talk about how I treat your daughter?
Fine.
Let's talk about how your daughter has never once accepted me.
How she watches everything I do and writes it down like a little spy.
How she has made it impossible for me to feel at home in my own house."
"This is my house," Dad said.
"And I'm your wife."
The word landed like something placed deliberately on the table between them.
Dad didn't answer right away.
He looked down at the notebook.
Then he looked at me.
"Lily," he said.
"Is everything in here true?"
"Yes," I said.
Angela turned to face me fully.
"You think you've won something tonight, don't you?"
I didn't answer.
"You haven't," she said.
"You've just made things much harder for yourself."
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Angela—"
"No." She picked up her bag from the doorway.
"I'm going to bed.
We can finish this tomorrow when everyone's calmer."
She walked past me without looking at me again.
Her footsteps went up the stairs.
The bedroom door didn't slam — it closed quietly, which somehow felt worse.
Dad and I stood in the kitchen.
The notebook was still on the table between us.
"Dad," I said.
"What does 'much harder for yourself' mean?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He picked up his coffee mug, realized it had gone cold, and set it back down.
May you like
"I don't know yet," he said.
But the way he said it told me he was already afraid he did.
