After that, nothing in the house feels the same. The hallway seems narrower. The walls feel thinner. Even Mark’s voice at dinner sounds different, as if there is something sharp hidden under every word. I lie beside him that night with my eyes open and realize I am no longer trying to prove myself wrong. I am trying to decide how much truth I can survive.
The next evening, when Mark takes Emma upstairs, I don’t follow right away.
I wait until I hear the bathroom door click. I wait until the water starts. I wait until my pulse is pounding in my throat. Then I step barefoot into the hallway.
The door is open just a crack.
I move closer and look inside.
Emma is standing outside the tub in her pajamas, fully dressed and crying quietly while Mark kneels at the sink with a bottle in one hand and a washcloth in the other. At first my brain cannot make sense of the scene. Then I see the bruises on Emma’s upper arm, dark beneath soap suds, and I hear Mark’s voice—low, cold, not gentle at all.
“You don’t tell Mommy you slipped again,” he says. “If you tell her, she’ll just get upset and ruin everything.”
Emma nods because she is terrified.
For one frozen second, neither of them sees me.