Not because I believed I could control every danger, but because Emma had begun to think she was responsible for preventing them.
I held her at arm’s length.
“Listen to me. Secrets kept by adults are not yours to protect. Problems created by adults are not yours to solve. Your job is to tell me the truth and let me help.”
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
“What if telling makes things worse?”
The question silenced me.
Children did not invent fears like that without learning them somewhere.
“Did someone tell you not to talk about the key?” I asked.
Emma looked toward the kitchen.
Not at me.
“Emma?”
“At school,” she said quietly, “someone left me a note.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“What did it say?”
She slipped her fingers into the cuff of her cardigan, twisting the fabric.
“It said, ‘Some things belong to your mother. Don’t let your father take them until you understand.’”
A cold uneasiness settled over me.
“Do you still have the note?”
She shook her head.
“I tore it up.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
