My 7-year-old daughter and my husband started having locked-door “private talks in the garage” every afternoon — and the silence on the other side of that door got too loud to ignore.
I’m 35. My husband, Jason, is 37. Our daughter, Lizzie, is seven.
Jason has always been a hands-on dad.
School events.
Bedtime stories. Hair brushing. Tea parties on the floor.
He does it all, without me asking.
He showed up every day without complaint.
So when the garage thing started, I tried not to be paranoid.
The first time, Lizzie came home from school, backpack half open.
Jason wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Hey, kiddo. Garage time?”
Her eyes lit up.
“Garage time!”
I looked up from my laptop. “What’s garage time?”
He smirked. “Private talks.
You’re not invited.”
They laughed and walked to the garage. The door shut. I heard the lock click.
The old radio came on.
I figured it was some father–daughter game. Cute, whatever.
They stayed out there about 40 minutes. When they came back in, Lizzie had a big smile on her face.
Jason grabbed a soda as if nothing had happened.
Next day, same thing.
“Garage time?”
I heard the radio switch on.
By the third day, something in my chest was tight.
That night while we did dishes, I said, “So what’s going on in these private talks?”
Jason shrugged. “Just hanging out. Talking.”
“About what?”
He grinned.
“Private talks. You’ll see.”
I tried Lizzie at bedtime.
“What do you and Daddy talk about in the garage?” I asked.
She rolled toward me. “Private talks, Mom.
You’re not invited.”
Same words. Same tone. Like a line she’d memorized.
That’s when the knot in my stomach really formed.
After that, I noticed things.
The garage window was covered from the inside with a sheet.
The light was always on when they were in there.
The radio was always just loud enough that I couldn’t hear voices.
Only muffled music.
If I walked down the hall, the radio seemed to get louder.
When I knocked, Jason didn’t open right away. I’d hear a scrape, something moving.
Then the door would crack open and he’d stand in the frame, blocking my view.
“What do you need?” he’d ask.
“Just checking in.”
Lizzie would peek around him. “Hi, Mom!
We’re busy!”
She looked happy. Not scared. Not tense.
And still the knot stayed.
I grew up in a house full of secrets.
Affairs, lies, everyone pretending. My brain is trained to expect the worst.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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