“Yes, kiddo?”
She kept coloring, her voice light as a feather.
Just like that.
No warning. No buildup. Just a question floating into the air like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Inside, something in me jolted awake.
On the outside, I forced myself to stay calm, keep my voice even. I’ve learned with young children that your face can weigh more than your words. One wrong look, and she’d shut down.
“That’s a good question,” I said. “What made you think of that?”
What followed came in bits and pieces, the way only a five-year-old can tell a story. Tiny details dropped into casual sentences. Mentions of someone she thought was “a friend.” A name I didn’t recognize. Little clues about things she had seen while I was at work.
Nothing she said was dramatic on its own.
But the way those pieces fit together… they didn’t match the picture of our home that I thought I knew.
