My five-year-old daughter always bathed with my husband. They would stay in there for more than an hour every night. When I finally asked her what they were doing, she burst into tears and said, “Daddy says I can’t talk about games in the bath.”

“You should be grateful that I help you so much,” he would say with that easygoing smile everyone trusted.

For a while, I was.

Then I started noticing the clock.

Not ten minutes. Not fifteen.

An hour. Sometimes more.

Every time I knocked on the door, Mark answered in the same calm voice.

“We’re almost done.” But when they came out, Sophie never seemed relaxed.
She looked exhausted.
She wrapped herself tightly in the towel and kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Once, when I tried to dry her hair, she pulled away so quickly that my stomach sank.

That was the first time I felt afraid.

The second was when I found a damp towel hidden behind the laundry basket, with a white, chalky stain that smelled faintly sweet, almost medicinal.

That night, after another long bath, I sat next to Sophie as she hugged her stuffed bunny to her chest.