“Dad… please do not be mad. Mom said if I told you, everything would get worse. My back hurts so bad I cannot sleep.”
The whisper floated weakly from the doorway of a softly decorated bedroom in a quiet, wealthy neighborhood outside Chicago. The room smelled faintly of lavender and clean laundry, yet the sound of pain in that small voice shattered the illusion of comfort. Michael Turner had been home for less than fifteen minutes. His suitcase still stood upright near the front door, untouched since his return from a grueling business trip overseas, and his mind had been full of anticipation for the moment he would finally see his daughter again.He froze where he stood, one hand still gripping the strap of his travel bag. His heart dropped with a sickening weight as he turned toward the sound. Seven year old Daisy stood half hidden behind her bedroom door, her shoulders curved inward as if she were trying to disappear into herself.
“Daisy, sweetheart,” Michael said carefully, lowering his voice the way he did when she was scared. “Come here. I am home now.”
She did not move. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, and her hands twisted the hem of an oversized pajama shirt that swallowed her thin frame.
Michael crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of her. “What is hurting, honey?”
Daisy hesitated, then took a shaky breath. “My back. It hurts all the time. Mom said it was an accident, but she told me not to tell you. She said you would be angry with me.”
Michael felt a chill crawl up his spine. He reached out, intending to pull her into a hug, but the moment his hand brushed her shoulder she cried out sharply.
