Her pen slipped from her fingers, and she glared at Dad.
“See, sir, do you know what your daughter is?”
To understand how I ended up in that courtroom, you need to understand the man sitting across from me.
My dad did not simply demand respect.
He manufactured it.
After my mother died when I was nine, he reinvented himself as the ultimate tragic hero—a self-made businessman who had sacrificed everything to raise two daughters alone.
The relatives believed every word.
The neighbors believed every word.
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