I wrapped my hands around the mug, hoping the heat would make the shaking less obvious.
He let the silence grow. He was good at that—better than anyone I’d ever met.
Finally, he said, “So. Tell me about your day.”
I tried for casual. “I read. I did the crossword. I made eggs.”
“Anything else?”
I ran the answer through my head: Do not lie. “I cleaned the kitchen. I watered the plant.”
He waited.
“And you?” I asked. The question sounded pathetic even to me.
“Well. I spent a little time on the internet.”
He slid his phone toward the centre of the table. It was open to a browser, the dark mode making the text stand out in a way that felt pointed.
He turned the screen to me. It took a second to register. It was a log. An access history. The time, the IP, the browser ID, the search string.
Angela Baggio.
My hands went cold. I felt the blood drop out of my face and pool somewhere around my knees.
He said, still gentle, “What do you have to say?”
I stared at the mug, waiting for the panic to hit, but it didn’t. What hit was worse—a deadening, like being held under water. I waited for him to fill the silence, but he did not.
I said, very quietly, “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, as if he had expected it. “I know.” His voice was so calm I almost cried. “But I want you to tell me why you did it.”
I shook my head. “It was stupid. I just wanted—” I stopped. It sounded petty. It was petty.
He waited.
I said, “I wanted to know if I still existed.” I tried to make it a joke. It wasn’t. “It’s been two years. I wanted to know if there was more danger. And I was just—” I struggled for the word. “Lonely, I guess.”
He was silent for a long time. Then he said, “You broke a rule.”
“I know.”
“I am going to discipline you for it.”
I stared at the mug again, the swirl of tea leaves at the bottom like a map I did not recognize.
He said, “Do you understand why?”
I nodded.
“Use your words, Angela.”
I looked up. I met his eyes, and for a second I felt the contract settle between us, a weight that was almost comfort.
“Yes, Daddy,” I said. “I understand.”
He stood up from the kitchen table with the tea still steaming, not a single word, just a flick of the fingers. I followed him down the hallway, to my bedroom. He let go of my hand just long enough to push the door open.
