brush.
Each incident had seemed harmless when viewed alone.
Together, they told a different story.
One I had been too distracted to recognize.
I turned toward the kitchen.
Maya was standing beside the counter, looking at the cinnamon rolls without opening the box.
She had heard more of the conversation than I’d realized.
And the worried expression on her face made my heart ache.
I had spent years believing that working hard, earning a good salary, and keeping a comfortable roof over her head were enough to make me a good father.
But standing there, I began to understand something I should have known all along.
A comfortable home means very little if the child living inside it doesn’t feel comfortable herself.
I hadn’t yet heard Maya’s side of the story.
I didn’t know how much of her daily routine had changed while I was traveling.
And I didn’t know
