But he forced himself to keep his voice calm.
"How often?"
"I don't know."
"Every day?"
"No."
"Sometimes during the week?"
She nodded.
The father glanced toward the bedroom door.
He wanted to stand up, march into the hallway, and confront his wife immediately.
But his daughter was finally speaking.
He could not make this another moment where the adults' anger became more important than what she needed to say.
So he stayed.
"Sweetheart, can I ask you something?"
"Yes."
"Are you ever hungry after dinner?"
Her face changed.
For a moment, he thought she might cry.
Then she whispered, "Sometimes."
He took her hand.
"What do you do?"
She looked down.
"I drink water."
The father closed his eyes briefly.
He remembered the plastic cup.
The careful question about which glass she could use.
"Does that help?"
She shrugged.
"Sometimes I go to sleep."
He swallowed.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Immediately, he regretted them.
His daughter looked frightened.
"I'm sorry."
"No, baby."
He gently squeezed her hand.
"I'm not angry with you. I asked that wrong."
She stared at him.
He leaned closer.
"You didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry you felt you couldn't tell me."
Her lower lip trembled.
"She said you were tired."
He waited.
"She said you work all day and I shouldn't make you upset."
The father felt as though someone had struck him in the chest.
His daughter continued.
"She said you already had too many things to worry about."
He stared at her.
"And what did you think?"
The little girl looked toward the photograph on her nightstand.
It showed her sitting between her parents at a park, taken shortly before her mother died.
"I didn't want you to be sad again."
The father couldn't speak.
She hugged the rabbit closer.
"You were sad for a really long time when Mommy went away."
He felt tears gathering.
"I know."
"And then you got happy again."
She looked at him.
"I didn't want to make you sad."
He pulled her carefully into his arms.