At first, I told myself I was imagining things, because doubt felt safer than accepting something that could shatter my world completely. My daughter, Emily Carter, was small for her age with soft curls and a quiet personality that made everyone describe her as gentle and sweet.
My husband, Scott Carter, insisted bath time was their special bonding routine, and he often smiled while saying it helped her relax before bed each night. He would look at me and say, “You’re lucky I’m so involved,” and for a while I believed him without questioning anything.
Then I started noticing the time more carefully, because what once felt normal began stretching into something that felt wrong. It was never just ten or twenty minutes, because sometimes it lasted an hour or even longer without any clear reason.
Whenever I knocked on the bathroom door, Scott always answered in the same calm tone that never changed. He would say, “Almost done,” as if repeating those words could make everything feel ordinary and harmless.