Oliver’s lips pressed together. Grace looked at Richard. “We had a meeting at school.”

“At school?” Richard frowned. “I didn’t get any email.”

“It wasn’t planned.” Grace’s eyes held his. Calm. Not evasive, not guilty—just… calm. “I’ll tell you everything. But maybe we should sit?”

They moved to the front room. Sunlight slanted across the hardwood, gilding the picture frames—Oliver at the beach with his mother, Oliver at a piano recital, a baby Oliver asleep on Richard’s chest. He remembered those Saturdays: conference calls on mute while a tiny heartbeat warmed his shirt.

Richard sat opposite his son and forced his voice to gentle. “I’m listening.”

“It was during reading circle,” Grace said. “Two boys made a joke about how slow Ollie reads. He stood up for himself—and for another boy they were teasing too. A scuffle. Oliver ended up with the bruise. The teacher separated them.”

Richard’s jaw tightened. “B:ullying,” he said, the word landing like a gavel. “Why wasn’t I called?”