“What things?”
“Her reaction to your husband’s presence. Her reaction to his mother’s name. The fact that she is describing an earlier threat. And the fact that she seems to believe she isn’t allowed to say certain things.”
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“She watches adults before answering.”
I thought about it.
The squeezing of my fingers.
The way she’d looked at her father before saying anything.
The way she’d stopped speaking whenever someone raised their voice.
“She may be trying to figure out which answer is safe,” the pediatrician said.
I felt cold despite the warm hallway.
“Do you think my husband hurt her?”
“I don’t know.”
The honesty of that answer scared me more than certainty would have.
“But I think,” she continued, “that you should take what she is telling you seriously.”
I nodded.
Then she added something that made me stop breathing.
