I did not make a sound.

My daughter had not made a sound either, when she saw it.

We were both, it turned out, better at this than I would ever have wanted either of us to be.

The silence cost me more than any scream would have.

Every instinct in my body wanted to burst through that door, to seize the cup, to scream what are you doing, what have you been doing to me — to make the horror stop being secret.

But I understood, crouched in the dark with my heart slamming, that a scream would ruin everything.