He’s always been a polite boy, the kind who looks you in the eye when he says hello and thanks you every time he leaves. He removes his shoes at the door without being asked and speaks with a gentleness that’s rare at that age. I’ve always liked him—and more importantly, I’ve always seen how comfortable my daughter feels around him.
But still, I’m a parent. And parents have imaginations that like to run faster than reality.
But that day, the giggles softened into hushed tones. The door stayed shut a little longer than usual. My thoughts started to wander into that uneasy place between caution and curiosity.
What if I’m being too relaxed?
What if something is happening that I should know about?
What if I’m missing something important?
I tried to ignore the little voice whispering in my ear, but it grew louder with each passing minute. And before I fully realized it, I was already walking down the hallway, telling myself I was just checking in. Nothing more.
When I reached her door, I paused. My hand hovered over the knob for a moment, and then, very gently, I pushed it open just an inch.
Soft music was playing. The sunlight from her window spilled over the floor in a warm stripe.
And there they were.
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