I crouched down to her level. “I’m here. Tell me.”
She turned around and lifted her shirt.
Everything narrowed.
Bruises. Deep purple, fading yellow at the edges. Spread across her back. Shapes I couldn’t ignore—handprints. Fingers.
I felt my breathing go ragged, but I forced my face to stay calm.
“How long?” I asked.
“Since February,” she said. “Three months.”
Three months. Saturdays. My work shifts. Megan taking her to her parents’ house.
“It’s Grandpa Daniel,” she whispered. “When you’re at work.”
Something inside me cracked.
“And Grandma?” I asked.
“She holds me,” Emma said quietly. “Says it’s for my own good.”
My chest felt like it was splitting open.
“Does Mom know?”
Emma nodded. “I told her.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I was exaggerating.”
Everything rearranged in my head—Emma flinching, going quiet, begging me not to work Saturdays.
I didn’t see it.
“Look at me,” I said softly.
She did.
“You did the right thing telling me,” I said.
Her lip trembled. “But the recital…”
“We’re not going.”
Her eyes widened. “But I practiced—”
“I know. And I’m proud of you. But this matters more.”
She stared like she didn’t know adults were allowed to choose her over plans.