“Papa… please don’t be mad,” my daughter whispered, her small voice barely carrying across the hallway. “Mommy said if I told you, things would get worse. My back hurts so much I can’t sleep.”
The words reached me not as a scream, not as a cry for attention, but as something far more terrifying—a careful confession shaped by fear. I had been home less than fifteen minutes, my suitcase still upright near the door, my jacket tossed carelessly over a chair. I had imagined my return so clearly during the flight back from Chicago: Sophie running toward me, laughing, nearly tripping over her own feet the way she always did, wrapping her arms around my legs like she feared I might disappear again. Instead, the house was quiet in a way that felt wrong. Too still.
Too controlled. When I turned toward her bedroom, I saw her half-hidden behind the doorframe, her body angled away, as if she were bracing for someone else to appear at any moment and pull her back into silence. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Her shoulders were hunched, her fingers twisting anxiously into the hem of her pajama top. Eight years old, and already carrying a fear she didn’t know how to name. I lowered my suitcase slowly, deliberately, as though even the sound of it touching the floor might shatter something fragile between us. I knelt to her level, forcing my voice to stay calm even as my heart began to race. “Sophie,” I said softly, “I’m home now. You’re safe. You can tell me anything.” She didn’t move. When I reached out instinctively, wanting to pull her into my arms, she flinched sharply, a gasp escaping her lips as she recoiled. That single reaction sent a cold wave of panic through me. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, pulling my hand back. “I won’t touch you.
