Patricia turned toward her.
"Look what you've done!"
I stepped between them again.
"Enough."
My voice was louder than I intended.
Sophia flinched.
I immediately lowered it.
I looked toward my daughter.
"I'm sorry for shouting, sweetheart."
She stared.
I took a breath.
"We're going downstairs."
Patricia folded her arms.
"And then what?"
I looked at her.
"Then I'm going to make sure Sophia is safe, and we're going to deal with this through people who can help us understand what happened."
Her expression changed.
"Are you threatening me?"
"No."
"Are you going to call the police because your daughter doesn't like chores?"
I shook my head.
"I'm not going to argue about this while she's standing here."
Patricia looked toward Sophia.
For a moment, the familiar controlling expression returned.
"Go to your room."
My daughter immediately straightened.
I held out my hand.
"Come with me, Sophia."
She looked from Patricia to me.
The uncertainty on her face was heartbreaking.
She had become so accustomed to following her stepmother's instructions that she didn't know whose words mattered when we disagreed.
I moved closer.
"You're coming with me, sweetheart."
After a moment, she took my hand.
We walked out of the bedroom.
Behind us, Patricia stood in the doorway.
For the first time in three years, I didn't turn around to make sure she approved.
I took Sophia to the living room.
Then I called my mother-in-law.
She was Sophia's maternal grandmother, a retired elementary school teacher who lived about twenty minutes away. She had been close to us before my first wife died, but our visits had become less frequent after I married Patricia.
I believed that was partly because she was getting older.
Now I wasn't so sure.
When she answered, her voice was warm.
"Hello, sweetheart."
I swallowed.
"Can Sophia and I come over?"
She immediately became concerned.
"Of course. Is everything all right?"
I looked toward my daughter.
"Not really."
There was a pause.
"Is Sophia safe?"
I took a breath.
"She's with me."
"Then come."
I ended the call.
Sophia sat on the sofa holding a cushion against her chest.
I approached her.
"Would you like to spend the evening at Grandma's?"
Her expression changed.
"Can we?"
I nodded.
"Of course."
She looked toward the stairs.
"Will Patricia let us?"
I sat beside her.
"You're coming with me."
Sophia stared.
Then she whispered, "She's going to be mad."
I put my arm around her shoulders.
"I'll handle that."
She didn't look convinced.
And I understood why.
For years, I'd allowed Patricia's explanations to override the little signals my daughter was sending.