Guilt.
Then she walked away.
My father followed.
“Rosalyn.”
She didn’t stop.
He caught her arm.
She whispered something.
I couldn’t hear it.
But whatever she said made my father’s face go completely white.
They left together.
My daughter continued crying.
And I stood beside the pool wondering why a three-year-old child had looked at my stepmother as if she were hiding a dead body.
That night, after everyone had gone home, I tucked Paisley into bed.
She was exhausted.
I kissed her forehead.
“Can Mommy ask you something?”
She nodded sleepily.
“Why did you say Daddy was inside Grandma Rosalyn?”
Paisley’s eyes opened.
She whispered:
“Because I saw him.”
My heart stopped.
“You saw Daddy?”
She nodded.
“On her tummy.”
“How?”
She frowned as though I were being stupid.
“Through the door.”
“What door?”
“The little door.”
I stared at her.
“What little door?”
