“At the beach.”
That evening, my father called.
“How’s Emma’s foot?”
I froze.
“You know her foot is hurting?”
“Yes, but I think it’ll get better soon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Once again, he fell silent.
I hung up.
For the first time in my life, I began feeling afraid of my own father.
A few days later, Emma came home from school and said:
“Mommy, Grandpa wants to take me to the hotel again on Saturday.”
“No.”
My daughter looked disappointed.
“But he promised that this time everything would be finished.”
I stared at her.
“What would be finished?”
Emma quickly corrected herself.
“Nothing… Just our project.”
That night, I barely slept.
The following morning, I decided to confront my father.
He came to our house carrying Emma’s favorite cookies.
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“Dad, what exactly are you doing with my daughter at that hotel?”
