“Dad, those are crooked.”
I climbed down and squeezed her shoulder. “You happy?”
“Very.” My daughter glanced at her phone, and her smile flickered for a second. “I’ll be right back.”
Lily stepped into the hallway and lowered her voice. I caught fragments.
“How did you get my number? Stop calling me!”
I told myself it was nothing. Teenagers had their whole hidden lives now, and I’d promised myself years ago I’d give her the privacy I never got as a kid.
“I’ll be right back.”
Still, it was the third hushed call this month.
Earlier that week, I’d walked into the kitchen, and she’d slid a manila folder off the table and into her backpack in one smooth motion, as if she’d practiced it.
When I asked, she just said, “School stuff.”
I let it go. I always let it go.
She’d slid a manila folder off the table.
