It was a small movement, but it changed the room.
Children glance toward the place they expect help to come from.
Ella glanced toward the place she expected danger to hear her.
“Dad, my back really hurts,” she whispered.
I knelt in front of her.
“Did you fall?”
She stared down at the rabbit.
“Mom said I shouldn’t tell you.”
My mind did what minds do when the truth is too sharp to hold immediately.
It reached for a playground fall.
It reached for a slammed door, a bad dream, a misunderstanding, or one of those dramatic childhood sentences that turns out to mean something much smaller.
But fear has a sound.
My daughter’s voice had it.
“You never have to hide from me when something hurts,” I said.
