“Hannah,” I said.

“Were you in here five weeks ago?”

She nodded slowly without lifting her eyes.

“He told me not to tell you because you already had enough on your plate,” she whispered.

I stared at my daughter, seeing five weeks of hidden wincing, skipped meals and early bedtimes.

Richard had watched every bit of it from his chair at the kitchen table.

He had laughed it off and blamed algebra.