“Why would you need a hotel room?”
Emma lowered her eyes.
“Mommy, I promised Grandpa I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Something inside me went cold.
That evening, I called my father.
“Dad, why are you taking Emma into a hotel room?”
He remained silent for several seconds.
“Anna, everything is fine.”
“Then why is my daughter keeping secrets from me?”
“Please, just give me a little more time.”
I became angry.
“She’s ten years old! You have no right to ask her to hide things from me!”
My father sighed heavily.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
But he still refused to explain why they were going to the hotel.
The following week, I noticed Emma was walking with a slight limp.
“What happened to your foot?”
“Nothing, Mommy. It just hurts a little.”
There was a small red mark on her right foot.
When I asked where it came from, she answered:
