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.”

“What are you doing in there with Daddy for so long?” I asked as gently as I could.

Her face changed completely.
She looked down. Her eyes filled with tears. Her little mouth trembled, but she didn’t say a word.

I took her hand. “You can tell me anything. I promise.”

She whispered so softly I could barely hear her.

“Dad says bathroom games are secret.”

My body went numb.

“What kind of games?” I asked.

She started crying even harder and shook her head.

“He said you’d be mad at me if I told you.”

I hugged her and told her I would never be mad at her. Never.

But she didn’t say anything else.

That night, I lay awake next to Mark, staring into the darkness, listening to him breathe as if nothing in the world was wrong. My whole being wanted to believe there was some innocent explanation I hadn’t yet seen.