The silence that followed Mrs. Fletcher’s question felt louder than any argument.

It did not rush me. It did not confront me. It simply sat there, heavy and expectant, settling into the space between us like something alive. Long enough for me to notice my breathing. Long enough for my pulse to spike, sharp and sudden, as though my body had recognized the danger before my mind had finished naming it.

Donor conflict management.

The words echoed in my head, clean and precise, carrying more ...