My daughter Emily was only eight years old when I started noticing something strange.
Every night, after bathing, instead of going straight to her room, she would discreetly cross the hall and head to my father’s room.
At first I didn’t pay much attention to it.
My father, George, was seventy-six years old and came to live with us after my husband died so that Emily and I wouldn’t be alone.
He was a calm, warm man.
He adored his granddaughter.
He read her fairy tales, built houses with blocks with her, and sometimes let her sit next to him while he looked at old family albums.
That’s why I initially thought their evening meetings were completely normal.
Until I started to notice a pattern.
Every evening, around nine o’clock precisely, my father appeared in the hallway.
— Emily, it’s time.
My daughter immediately put her toys away.
— I’m going, grandpa.
