But his face had turned pale.
I crouched beside him.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said something about Grandma.”
He stared toward the doorway.
“Ben, what does Grandma do?”
His eyes immediately filled with tears.
“I promised.”
My stomach twisted.
“Promised what?”
“Not to tell you.”
My hands began trembling.
I sat on the floor beside him.
Ben started crying.
“Who told you not to tell me?”
He whispered one word.
“Grandma.”
“Why?”
I tried to keep my voice calm.
“You are not in trouble. I promise. Just tell me what happened.”
Ben wiped his face.
Then, in a voice so small I almost didn’t hear him, he said,
“She wakes Brenda up.”
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
“What do you mean? Sometimes babies cry at night. Maybe Grandma hears her and comes in—”
“No.”
Ben shook his head hard.
“Brenda is sleeping.”
And then my seven-year-old son told me what had been happening inside our house while Daniel and I slept.
