passing by

In the upstairs bathroom, I stand and wait for my youngest daughter to finish.

My back is to the door. Given my history, that’s uncommon.

As I help her down off the toilet, I catch a glimpse of someone passing behind me — walking through the hallway just beyond the door. I assume it’s my teenage daughter coming out of her room to head downstairs.

But the hair was too dark, too long. And she did not stop to say goodnight to her sister.

And there was something cold in her manner.

While my wife puts our toddler to bed, I go downstairs. My middle daughter is there on the couch.

“Have you been down here this whole time?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, why?”

I shrug. “Just wondering” I reply . . . though I am not really wondering.