“Okay.”
She took a shaky breath.
“Dad put the picture in my backpack.”
“Why?”
“Because Grandma was coming.”
My skin prickled.
“What was Grandma coming for?”
My daughter hesitated.
Then she whispered:
“To talk to me.”
The room went silent.
I looked at my husband.
He looked at the floor.
And suddenly, I remembered something I’d dismissed three months earlier.
A Saturday morning.
My daughter had asked me whether grown-ups could make you keep secrets.
I’d laughed and told her that good secrets were okay, like birthday surprises, but scary secrets should always be told.
She’d nodded.
Then she’d asked:
“What if Dad says it’s a scary secret but Grandma says it’s normal?”
I’d thought she was talking about something she’d seen on television.
I’d forgotten about it.
Until now.
My daughter squeezed my hand.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I tell you the other thing?”
