Shame washed over me in a cold wave.

“Why didn’t you come to me directly, Marisol?” I asked.

But before Marisol could answer, my nine-year-old daughter spoke up, in a small, clear voice.

“We did try to tell you, Daddy.” And I looked at Valeria, and I found that I could not hold her gaze.

“When?” I asked.

“Three months ago,” she whispered.

“When you were working on your laptop in the study.

I told you Chloe was mean to us when you were away.