The father looked at her.
"I work long hours because we agreed I would focus on the business while you handled the school schedule."
"Exactly."
"I trusted you."
"And you should."
"I trusted you to care for both children."
"I do."
He looked at his phone.
Then back at her.
"That's not what I saw."
She reached for the device.
"Give me that."
He moved it away.
"No."
"You're not keeping a recording of me in my own house."
"I'm preserving what happened."
She stared.
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm telling you that I won't pretend I didn't see it."
Her expression hardened.
"That girl knows exactly how to manipulate you."
The father felt his jaw tighten.
"Don't call her that girl."
"She's not innocent."
"She's ten."
"She's been trying to turn you against me since the wedding."
The father stared at the woman he'd married.
He searched her face for some sign that she understood what she was saying.
A child who had lost her mother.
A child who had welcomed a new adult into her home.
A child who now seemed frightened to ask for food.
His wife was describing her as an enemy.
Something changed inside him.
Not a sudden burst of rage.
Something quieter.
A recognition that the conversation was no longer about one plate of chicken.
He stepped toward the door.
"We're not discussing this in front of the children."
His wife followed.
"Where are you going?"
"To make sure they're okay."
"And then?"
He stopped.
"Then I'm going to find out what else I've missed."
At eight-fifteen, the father knocked gently on his daughter's bedroom door.
"Sweetheart? Can I come in?"
There was a pause.
Then a small voice answered, "Yes, Daddy."
The room was tidy.
Almost unnaturally tidy.
The bedspread lay perfectly flat. Her school shoes were lined up beneath the dresser. Her backpack hung from a hook near the closet.
There were no toys scattered across the floor.
No books left open.
No crayons on the desk.