My daughter, Lily, was small and sweet, with soft curls and a calm personality. Everyone described her as “adorable.”
My husband, Daniel, always said that bath time was their special bonding routine, something that helped her relax before bed.
“You should be glad I’m so involved,” he’d say with a smile.
And for a while… I believed him.
But then I started noticing the time.
It wasn’t ten or twenty minutes.
It was an hour. Sometimes more.
Every time I knocked on the door, Daniel would give the same answer:
“We’re almost done.”
When they finally came out, Lily didn’t seem like herself. She was quieter. More withdrawn. She wrapped the towel tightly around her body, as if she wanted to disappear. One night, when I reached out to fix her hair, she shuddered, just a little, but enough for me to notice.
That’s when the doubts began.
Later that night, after another long bath, I sat beside her on the bed. She was clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest.
“What do you do in there for so long?” I asked gently.
She immediately looked down.
Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t answer.
I took her hand tenderly. “You can tell me anything.”
Her lip trembled.
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