Something about his writing style made my stomach drop. It wasn’t a minor shock, but a nauseating lurch, like an elevator plummeting into the void. Only you. Close the door. He was too careful, too specific. A cold, slippery, unwanted fear began to seep into my veins.
“Dad, can you help me with the zipper on my dress? Come to my room. Just you. Close the door.”
I was halfway through the meticulous process of perfecting the Windsor knot in my tie when my phone vibrated on the dresser. A single, brief, sharp vibration that cut through the quiet murmur of anticipation before the recital. It was a message from my daughter, Lily.
That was unusual. She was eight years old, and although she handled the phone well, she also knew that I was literally three rooms away, struggling with formal attire for her big piano recital.
I swiped the screen. The message was simple, but each word seemed strangely deliberate, placed with a precision unlike her usual barrage of emojis and misspellings.
Something about that sentence made my stomach sink. It wasn’t a gentle drop, but a sickening pull, like an elevator in freefall. Just you. Close the door. Too careful, too specific. An icy, sticky, unwelcome dread began to creep into me.
“Everything alright down there?” my wife, Claire, called from downstairs. Her voice was bright, a melody over the soft jazz playing in the kitchen.
“I’m almost done!” I replied, and my own voice sounded hollow and distant.
I walked toward Lily’s room, my dress shoes feeling like lead on the hall carpet. I knocked twice, a formality that suddenly felt critical.
—Lily-bug? It’s me, Dad.
When I didn’t hear a response, I pushed the door.
The scene inside was bad. The room was bathed in the soft, dying light of the afternoon, but there was no sign of celebration. Her beautiful velvet dress for the recital lay on a chair, untouched. Lily stood by the window, still in jeans and a faded T-shirt with a cartoon cat on it. Her face, usually so vibrant, was pale and tired. She gripped her phone so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
“Hi, little one,” I said, trying to sound normal, even though I didn’t feel that way. “Your mom’s the expert at closing things up, you know? Do you want me to call her?”
She shook her head in a small, stiff movement.
“I lied about the closure,” he whispered, so softly that the silence almost swallowed him up.
She turned towards me and I saw the dark circles under her eyes.
