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I replayed them in flashes while kneeling there beside my daughter.
College football games.
Beach vacations.
Christmas mornings.
Hospital bracelets when Sophie was born.
Rebecca crying into my chest because she was terrified of becoming a bad mother.
Nothing fit.
Nothing made sense beside the bruise on my little girl’s back.
Then I remembered something else.
Three weeks earlier, Sophie had stopped asking to be tucked in by her mother.
Two weeks ago, she’d started wetting the bed again after years without accidents.
Last week, my wife insisted Sophie was “becoming manipulative.”
And every time I offered to stay home longer between business trips, Rebecca told me not to worry.
“I’ve got everything under control.”
God.
What had been happening while I was gone?
Footsteps sounded upstairs.
Sophie immediately froze.
Her whole body stiffened like prey hearing a predator approach.
Then Rebecca’s voice floated down casually:
“Daniel? Is that you?”
I looked at my daughter.
She looked terrified.
That was enough.
“Go put your shoes on,” I whispered quickly.
Her eyes widened.
“Why?”
“Because we’re leaving.”
She didn’t even question me.
That hurt too.