When I was in middle school, he went through my backpack every night after dinner, digging through crumpled worksheets and half-sharpened pencils as if he expected to uncover contraband.
By high school, things had escalated.
If teachers were late posting grades online, he emailed them.
Once he forwarded me a screenshot of my grade portal with a single B circled in red.
The subject line read:
Explain this, Lacey. No dinner until you do.
Seconds later, he texted the same message.
Another time, I was called to the counselor’s office because my father had accused a teacher of hiding an assignment.
She wasn’t hiding it.
She simply hadn’t graded it yet.
The counselor looked at me with a mix of sympathy and exhaustion, like my father’s demands had already become a familiar story.
So yes.
I knew exactly what I was agreeing to.
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