The pediatrician looked at him.
“What did you tell her not to tell her mother?”
He opened his eyes.
“Nothing.”
My daughter immediately shook her head.
“You did.”
His face tightened.
“Sweetheart—”
“Don’t call me that.”
The words came out so quietly that they almost disappeared.
But everyone heard them.
My husband took a step backward.
My daughter stared at him from beneath the blanket.
“You said Mom would get mad.”
“I said she would worry.”
“You said Grandma would be angry.”
He didn’t answer.
The pediatrician pulled a chair closer to my daughter.
“Would you like to tell us what happened?”
My daughter nodded.
Then she looked at me.
“Last week, Grandma took me into the laundry room.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“She said she needed to ask me something.”
“What did she ask?”
My daughter picked at the corner of the blanket.
“She asked if I loved Dad.”
