But let’s go back a little. To understand the poison in my father’s voice, you need to know the story.

In reality, my father was afraid. Not of me — of the truth. A week before the argument, I found out that for years he had been taking out loans in my mother’s name while she was alive, and afterward — in mine.

I said I would tell my brother. That evening, he realized I would no longer stay silent.

He took my phone, but he overlooked one thing. Before the argument, I had managed to send my brother a short voice message. No details. Just crying, screaming, and the words: “If I disappear — it’s Dad.” That was enough for Jake.

When the police cars pulled up to the house, my father stepped onto the porch with a glass in his hand. The smile vanished instantly.

He tried to speak confidently, but his voice was trembling. My brother was the first to run to me, cut the lock, and wrapped me in his jacket.

My father shouted that it was “discipline.” The police officer silently put handcuffs on him.

That night I understood: sometimes the most terrifying beast isn’t behind bars, but on the other side of the lock.