“At his house.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Then Emily picked up her phone and went to her room.
That night, I barely slept. One part of me kept saying I was overreacting.
This was my father.
The man who had raised me.
But another part of me was much louder.
You’re her mother. It’s your job to ask questions.
The next morning, I decided to call my father.
I dialed his number.
But before he could answer, I hung up.
I had no idea how to begin.
“Dad, why did you say something like that to my twelve-year-old daughter?”
Even thinking the sentence felt unreal.
Two days later, Emily went to Grandpa’s house again.
This time, I drove her there myself.
When I pulled up in front of the house, my father came outside.
Emily immediately ran toward him.
I watched them.
My father smiled, spoke to her, then gently touched her shoulder as he invited her inside.
It looked completely ordinary.
But by then, I was seeing every little detail differently.
An hour and a half later, I came back to pick Emily up.
The door was locked.
I rang the bell. No answer. I rang again.
Silence.
My heart started beating faster.
I still had a spare key to the house.
I opened the door.
“Emily?”
No answer.
“Dad?”
Low voices were coming from deeper inside the house.
It was Emily.
“But you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
