When my father-in-law, Robert, moved into our home, I was actually happy about it.
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He was sixty-eight years old, had recently lost his wife, and was living completely alone in a large house. My husband, Daniel,
suggested that he stay with us for a while. Our six-year-old daughter, Emily, adored her grandfather, and whenever he was
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around her, he seemed to come alive again.
During the first few weeks, everything seemed normal.
Robert took Emily to school, prepared breakfast for her, and read her stories in the evening. Whenever I came home late
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from work, my daughter had already eaten dinner, and her schoolbag was ready for the next day.
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I was grateful. But then I began noticing strange things.
One morning, I sent Emily to school wearing a blue dress. When she came home that evening, she was dressed in a pink
tracksuit.
“What happened to your dress?” I asked.
Emily shrugged.
“Grandpa said I needed to change.”
Robert immediately explained that she had spilled juice on the dress during lunch. I didn’t question it. Things like that
