He didn’t look like the villains from parental nightmares. He looked respectable, if anything. The easy way he carried himself, the way he opened the car door for her—it was the behavior of someone practiced at appearing safe. If this was posturing, then it was worse!
We didn’t confront her that night. Instead, we sat across from each other in the kitchen, bowls of soup cooling between us, and unspoken words swirling like steam. Every clink of the spoon was an accusation. Every silence screamed louder than words. We were losing her.