When they called her name and she walked across that stage, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I clapped so loudly the man next to me gave me a look.
I didn’t care.
Not one bit.
That night, Ainsley came home buzzing with the kind of energy only people who have just crossed a finish line can have. She hugged me at the door and said, “I’m exhausted, Dad. Night,” before heading upstairs.
I was still smiling, cleaning up the kitchen, when there was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find two uniformed officers standing under the yellow porch light.
My stomach dropped instantly—that cold, involuntary feeling you get when you see police at your door late at night.
The taller officer spoke first.
“Are you Brad? Ainsley’s father?”
“Yes, Officer. What happened?”
They exchanged a glance.
Then he said, “Sir, we’re here to talk about your daughter. Do you have any idea what she has done?”
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“My… my daughter? I… I don’t understand…”
“Sir, please relax,” he added quickly, reading my face. “She’s not in any trouble. I want to be clear about that upfront. But we felt you needed to know something.”
That didn’t calm me down.
Not even a little.
