The older girl’s heart began pounding.
“Nothing.”
“That is what I thought.”
Under the table, the younger girl reached toward the dinner roll again.
This time she moved even more carefully.
Her fingers were almost there.
The stepmother saw.
Her heel pushed forward.
The toe of her black shoe struck the little plate beside the child.
It scraped across the rug and hit the table leg.
The younger girl jerked backward.
The stepmother leaned down just enough to see her.
“If you’re hungry, eat down there.”
The older girl’s face went white.
The younger girl whispered, “Please.”
The stepmother straightened.
“What?”
“I haven’t eaten today.”
“You refused breakfast.”
“I ate the apple.”
“You complained about lunch.”
“There wasn’t lunch.”
The stepmother’s expression sharpened.
“Do not lie.”
The child looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s better.”
The older girl could not breathe properly.
She slipped her hand beneath the napkin.
Touched the phone.
The call was still connected.
She had never been more grateful to see the tiny green timer moving across the screen.
Twenty-three minutes.
Her stepfather had been listening for twenty-three minutes.
Or maybe he had hung up.
Maybe the phone simply had not updated.
Maybe he had not heard.
Maybe he was still three states away.
The older girl did not know.
What she did know was that three hours earlier, she had sent him the first message she had ever sent without her mother’s permission.
Can you call me alone? Please don’t tell Mom.
He had answered almost immediately.
Are you safe?
She stared at the screen for five minutes before replying.
I am. She isn’t.
Then he called.
The older girl had hidden inside the upstairs linen closet and whispered so quietly she could barely hear herself.
She told him only enough to make him stop talking.
She told him that his daughter was being punished when he traveled.
That food disappeared.
That the younger girl sometimes slept without blankets because the stepmother took them away.
That she had been made to stand in the laundry room for hours.
That her father’s phone calls were rehearsed beforehand.
That whenever he asked whether everything was all right, his daughter looked at the stepmother before answering.
The father had gone silent.
Then he asked a question that terrified the older girl.
“How long?”
She began crying.
“Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I should’ve told you.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I knew.”
His voice broke.
“I’m not mad at you.”
The older girl pressed one fist against her mouth.
He asked, “Where is she now?”
“In her room.”
“Is she hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What happened today?”
The older girl told him.
The spilled milk at breakfast.
The stepmother accusing the younger child of doing it deliberately.
Taking away lunch.