“She has to learn,” Vanessa snapped.
Michael looked back at Lily. The little girl’s shoulders flinched before anyone had even moved.
It was not a reflex.
It was anticipation.
Fear, practiced over time.
“How long has this been going on?” Michael asked.
Vanessa’s brow tightened.
“What?”
“How long has this been happening?”
She folded her arms across her chest.
“You’re never home, Michael. You have no idea what it’s like to raise them by yourself.”
Michael almost laughed at how close he had come to believing her.
“You told me they were fine.”
“They are fine.”
Lily flinched again.
And in that instant, everything became clear.
“Lily,” he said softly, lowering himself to one knee beside her. “Look at me.”
Slowly, the child lifted her eyes to his.
“I need the truth. Did she hurt you?”
Vanessa took a step forward.
“Don’t put ideas into her head—”
“Enough.”
One sharp word froze her where she stood.
Michael kept his gaze on Lily. For the first time in far too long, he gave her something she had been denied.
A choice.
Her lower lip began to tremble.
“We were… bad,” she whispered.
Michael felt his chest tighten.
“What do you mean by that?”
“We spilled the milk. We didn’t listen. We deserved it.”
We deserved it.
No child invents words like that alone.
Someone teaches them.
Michael closed his eyes for one brief second. When he opened them again, his rage had hardened into something colder and far more certain.
He could keep clinging to the picture of a perfect family.
Or he could face what stood in front of him and tear down everything that had been built on lies.
Vanessa’s voice abruptly softened.
“Michael, you’re exhausted. You’re upset. Let’s talk about this in the morning.”
Morning.
Later.
Delay.
That was how the truth got buried.
“I’m not waiting anymore,” he said.
Vanessa’s eyes turned hard.
“And what exactly are you going to do? Accuse me? Call the police? Destroy everything because a child is exaggerating?”