But about two months ago, something changed.
Whenever Emma came home, she became strangely quiet.
If I asked what they had done together, she’d shrug.
“Nothing special, Mommy.”
Sometimes she looked as though she wanted to tell me something, but then quickly changed the subject.
I didn’t think much of it.
Until one evening.
I was helping Emma get ready for bed when she suddenly asked me a question that made my blood run cold.
“Mommy, is it bad to keep secrets from you?”
I stopped folding her pajamas.
“What kind of secrets, sweetheart?”
She hesitated.
“Grandpa says some things are just between us.”
My stomach tightened.
“What things, Emma?”
She lowered her voice.
“Every time I visit, Grandpa asks me to go into the bathroom with him. Then he locks the door.”
I stared at her.
“And what happens inside?”
She looked down at her hands.
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
