“I didn’t know she was saying that.”
My daughter looked at him.
“You were there.”
His face changed.
“I was outside.”
“You were at the door.”
He went silent.
I remembered that day.
My daughter had come downstairs afterward unusually quiet.
I’d asked what was wrong.
She’d said, “Nothing.”
I’d believed her.
Or maybe I’d simply wanted to.
The pediatrician asked, “What happened after Grandma talked to you?”
My daughter looked down.
“Dad came in.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked what Grandma told me.”
My husband closed his eyes again.
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I didn’t want to talk about it.”
My daughter wiped her cheek.
“Then Dad said, ‘Good. Keep it that way.’”
I felt something inside me collapse.
Not because of one sentence.
Because suddenly dozens of small moments were rearranging themselves in my mind.
The unexplained silences.
