Her lips trembled. “Michael, please—”

“Not here,” I muttered, pointing toward the kitchen. “Now.”

She followed, her steps small and shaky. The door closed behind us.

My voice came out low. Controlled. Too controlled.

“You told our daughter she couldn’t come inside? In the middle of winter?”

Lydia blinked rapidly, as if searching for an excuse. “She was being difficult. She didn’t listen. I needed a moment to calm down—”

“You left her out there for how long?” I snapped.