What I Didn’t Know My Daughter Had Been Doing
The house felt hollow after Mark left. I cried in private. Emma didn’t.
She woke up on time. Did her homework. Kissed my cheek every morning.
Too calm.
One night, I noticed papers on her desk. Emails. Names I recognized.
Mark.
Rebecca.
Plans. Hotels. Messages about “handling Sarah.”
When I confronted her, she didn’t flinch.
“Dad’s not careful,” she said. “He reuses passwords. Never logs out.”
I felt sick. “Emma, how long have you known?”
“Six weeks,” she said. “About the money, I figured it out before he left.”
Six weeks.
While I was hoping everything was fine, my daughter had been quietly documenting the truth.
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