"You need professional help sorting through this."
He nodded.
"I know."
"I'm not talking about somebody who'll tell you whether your wife is a good person."
"I know."
"I'm talking about someone who understands what happens to children when they're made to feel that basic care depends on behaving perfectly."
The father looked toward the hallway.
"I never thought my daughter would be afraid to ask for food."
His mother touched his shoulder.
"Then don't ignore what you know now."
He stared at his coffee.
"I keep wondering whether she tried to tell me."
His mother remained quiet.
He continued.
"There were little things. Complaints about chores. She stopped wanting to invite friends over. She started asking whether I was upset with her."
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
"I thought she was adjusting."
His mother pulled out a chair.
"Sit down."
He obeyed.
She sat across from him.
"When you were little, your father worked two jobs for a while."
The father nodded.
"I remember."
"He missed some things too."
"Like what?"
"Your fear of swimming after that older boy pushed you into the deep end at camp."
He blinked.
He hadn't thought about that incident in years.
"I didn't tell him."
"Exactly."
His mother leaned forward.
"Children can hide terrible worries from the people they love most. Sometimes because they're afraid. Sometimes because they think they're protecting us."
The father looked down.
"That doesn't make it okay."
"No."
Her answer was firm.
"It means your job now is to make sure she doesn't have to carry those worries alone."
He nodded.
His mother continued.
"And remember the boy. He's not responsible for what his mother did."
"I know."
"Make sure he hears that more than once."
The father looked toward the hallway.
"I told him last night."
"Good."
She reached for his hand.
"Now tell him tomorrow too."
Lunch was the first meal the father had watched his daughter eat without hesitation in longer than he could remember.
His mother placed a large dish of baked chicken in the center of the table.