The first thing Damon Brooks noticed when he stepped into the dining room was his daughter holding her cheek.
Five-year-old Ava sat frozen in a cream-colored chair at the end of the long dinner table, wearing the pink ruffled dress she had chosen for school that morning. Tears ran silently down her face. Her left palm covered the side of her cheek, and she was staring at the woman standing beside her with an expression Damon had never seen on his daughter before.
Fear.
Across the table, eight-year-old Noah was crying too.
His son’s hands were clenched into fists against his knees. The plate in front of him held half a piece of grilled chicken, three broccoli florets, and a small spoonful of corn. Ava’s plate looked almost identical.
Damon stopped beneath the doorway.
His leather briefcase slipped from his fingers.
“Dad.”
Noah’s voice cracked.
Renee turned.
Damon’s wife looked as shocked to see him as if a stranger had walked into the house.
“What are you doing home?”
He did not answer.
His eyes returned to Ava.
She still held her cheek.
Damon crossed the room.
“What happened?”
Ava’s bottom lip trembled.
Renee moved first.
“She had a tantrum.”
Damon crouched beside his daughter.
“Ava.”
The little girl looked at him.
He gently lowered her hand.
A faint red mark crossed her cheek.
Nothing graphic.
Nothing requiring an ambulance.
Still enough to make something inside Damon become completely cold.
“Who did that?”
Ava glanced at Renee.
Renee sighed.
“Oh, Damon.”
He stood.
“What happened?”
“She hit me.”
Ava’s voice was barely audible.
Damon’s eyes moved toward his wife.
Renee crossed her arms.
“She slapped my hand away and nearly knocked a glass onto the floor.”
Noah stood abruptly.
“No, she didn’t!”
Renee turned.
“Sit down.”
“No!”
Damon looked at his son.
Noah was not a confrontational child.
He argued about bedtime.
He complained about homework.
He once negotiated for forty minutes over whether cleaning one shoe counted as half of cleaning both.
He did not usually shout at his mother.
“Noah.”
The boy pointed toward Ava.
“She slapped her.”
Renee’s face hardened.
“I said sit down.”
Noah started crying harder.
“She did!”
Damon stepped between them.
“Stop.”
Everyone did.
He looked at Renee.
“Did you hit Ava?”
Renee stared at him.
“She was completely out of control.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“She tried to get into the refrigerator after I told her dinner was over.”
Damon frowned.
Dinner was not over.
The plates were still full.
The chandelier above the table remained on.
Bread sat in a basket near Renee.
“What do you mean dinner was over?”
“She refused to eat what I gave her.”
Ava shook her head.
“I ate it.”
Renee looked down.
“You ate what you wanted.”
“I was hungry.”
“You had dinner.”
“I wanted bread.”
Renee’s jaw tightened.
“And I said no.”
Damon looked between them.
Ava’s eyes filled again.
“I asked nice.”
Renee laughed once, quietly.
“No, you screamed.”
“I didn’t!”
“You were whining and reaching across the table.”
Noah pointed toward the bread basket.
“She asked for one.”
Renee turned on him.
“You are not part of this conversation.”
“I saw it!”
Damon raised one hand.
“Enough.”
He looked at Ava.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
Renee exhaled in frustration.
“Damon, do not interrogate a five-year-old when she’s already worked herself up.”
He did not look at her.