"Excuse me?"
I held up one of the envelopes.
"Explain this."
She glanced at it.
Then she shrugged.
"Sophia's little stories."
I stared.
"Stories?"
Patricia folded her arms.
"She writes things when she's upset. You know how imaginative she can be."
I looked toward the open box.
There were dozens of letters inside, many addressed to me by name, including some that appeared to have been opened and folded again.
"Why are they in your closet?"
She sighed.
"Because she leaves papers everywhere, and I was trying to keep things organized."
I took a breath.
"She says she gave them to you to deliver to me."
Patricia looked at Sophia.
My daughter lowered her head.
I stepped closer to my wife.
"Look at me. Not her."
Patricia's jaw tightened.
"You're being dramatic."
I held up another letter.
"This says she's afraid of being punished if she tells me what's happening in this house."
Patricia laughed nervously.
"She's nine. Children exaggerate."
I looked at her.
"Then tell me why I found her kneeling on the laundry room floor washing your clothes by hand."
Her face changed.
For the first time, she seemed genuinely surprised.
"You came home early."
The words hung between us.
I stared at her.
"That's your answer?"
She blinked.
"No. I'm just saying—"
"Why was she washing your clothes by hand?"
Patricia rubbed her forehead.
"Because she damaged some laundry and needed to learn responsibility."
I felt anger rising.
"She's nine years old."
"Exactly. Old enough to understand consequences."
"She missed lunch."
Patricia looked away.
"She was supposed to finish a chore first."
I stared at her.
My voice became very quiet.
"Food is not a reward for obedience."
Patricia rolled her eyes.
"Oh, don't start acting like I'm starving her."
I looked toward Sophia.
My daughter stood near the bedroom doorway, clutching the bottom of her T-shirt with both hands.
I took a slow breath.
Then I turned back to Patricia.
"How long have you been making her do this?"
She looked irritated.
"You're taking her side without hearing mine."
"I'm asking a question."
She folded her arms.
"Not long."
"Days?"
She didn't answer.
"Weeks?"
Patricia looked toward the closet.
"She's perfectly capable of helping around the house."
I felt something inside me harden.
This was the woman I'd trusted with my daughter.
The woman who sent me cheerful photographs while I was away.
The woman who assured me Sophia was becoming more independent.
Now she was standing in front of me defending the idea that a nine-year-old should spend her afternoon washing adult clothing by hand as punishment.