It was one of those slow, easy evenings—mac and cheese, cartoons humming, my six-year-old tucked into my side, warm and weightless. I asked if she wanted to play hide-and-seek before bed. She went still, fingers gathering the hem of her pajama top.

“I don’t think I should,” she whispered, eyes darting toward the garage door. “Last time I played with Daddy, he got mad.”Stephen? Mad at her? The man who treated raised voices like broken glass?“Why?” I kept my voice light.

“I hid in the garage. He couldn’t find me. I got bored and opened a box. He took it away really fast.” She scrunched her nose, thinking. “I thought it was Christmas lights. It was just paper. He said if you find the box, we’ll be in big trouble. We don’t want you to see it.”

The knot formed in my stomach, small and hard. I kissed her hair and said, “You can hide wherever it’s safe.” We played anyway. I laughed too loudly, let her win, tucked her in, and sat in the dark with the knot growing. Read more below