A month after adopting Jennifer, she looked up at me with wide eyes and whispered, “Mommy, don’t trust Daddy.” Her words echoed in my mind, sparking a deep unease.
Jennifer, a shy, cautious girl, had quickly become the center of our world. Richard was smitten, always doting on her, but she remained distant, especially around him. One evening, as I tucked Jennifer into bed, she whispered again, “Don’t trust Daddy.”
I froze. “Why, sweetheart?” I asked gently.
She shrugged, her face filled with worry. “He’s talking weird. Like he’s hiding something.”
Later, I overheard Richard on the phone, speaking in a low, tense voice. “I’m afraid Jennifer might tell Marla,” he said. “It’s hard to keep things under wraps.”
Panic surged through me. What was he hiding?
That night, I confronted him. “I overheard you. What are you hiding from me?”
Richard paused, then took my hand, his expression softening. “It’s not what you think,” he said. “I’m planning a surprise for Jennifer’s birthday. I didn’t want her to spoil it.”
Relief washed over me, but guilt lingered. I had imagined the worst. Richard squeezed my hand. “We’re both just trying to adjust,” he said.
The next morning, as I watched Richard patiently help Jennifer with breakfast, I felt the tension lift. Slowly, trust was building between them, and between all of us.
