Her face was pale. Not just tired pale—scared pale. Her eyes were wide and shiny, her hands clenched together in her lap so tight the knuckles showed white.
“What is it, sweetheart?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
“Can we… can we not go home right now?” she said.
The words cracked at the end, and something in my chest tightened.
“Not go home?” I repeated, turning around in my seat. “Sophie, are you feeling sick?”
She shook her head fast. “No. It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She swallowed, like her throat had become too small. Tears gathered but didn’t fall yet, as if she was trying to be brave and failing by inches.
“I heard Grandma talking last night,” she whispered.
I felt a cold thread move through my stomach. “Talking to who?”
“On the phone,” Sophie said. “Late. After you went to bed.”
I stared at her, my mind trying to make a harmless story out of it. Margaret on a late call with a friend. Margaret gossiping. Margaret discussing her retreat. Margaret complaining about me. None of those would make Sophie look like this.
“What did you hear?” I asked carefully.
Sophie looked down at her hands, then back up at me like she was asking permission to break something fragile.