At Thanksgiving Dinner, My Daughter Stood up and Shouted, ‘And Where’s the Woman Dad Keeps in Our Shed?’

“The woman Dad keeps hidden in our shed, mummy!” she blurted out, her innocent face twisted with confusion.

The woman in our shed?

“What are you talking about, sweetie?” I asked, my voice trembling, my pulse racing as I cast a look at Peter, whose face had turned a ghostly shade of white.

Emma’s expression was fierce, her little hands planted on her hips, her eyes fixed on her father. “The woman who lives in the shed! I saw her with my OWN eyes!

Dad goes to see her when you’re out shopping or at work.”

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