The room remained suspended in a collective gasp, the air charged with a tension so palpable it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath. All eyes turned to my mother-in-law, Diane, who stood frozen, her composure cracking like thin ice under the weight of my daughter’s innocent question. Trevor’s face drained of color as he stumbled backward, shock replacing the anger that had contorted his features moments before.
Pastor John, a kind-hearted man who had known our family for years, knelt down to Emma’s level. His expression was one of gentle concern, yet there was a flicker of something else—an understanding that perhaps this child was pointing to truths buried beneath layers of deception.
“What is it, Emma?” he asked softly, his voice the only sound in the otherwise silent room. “What did Grandma put in the bottles?”
