I went to my daughter’s house without telling her I was coming.

The moment I stepped inside, I heard something from the kitchen that made me stop before I had even taken off my coat.

Emily was crying.

Not loudly.

So quietly that at first, I thought I was hearing water dripping from the faucet.

Then I walked closer.

Daniel and his mother, Patricia, were sitting comfortably at the dining table eating roast chicken.

Emily stood at the sink wearing only a thin burgundy sweater.

Her hands were submerged in dirty gray dishwater.

A kitchen window had been cracked open even though snow was falling outside.

Emily was trembling so badly that two glasses in the sink knocked together.

The dining area, meanwhile, was warm.

Daniel had placed a small space heater beside the table and aimed it directly toward himself and Patricia.

Not toward Emily.

Daniel lifted his empty plate.

“Stop washing those and bring me more chicken.”

Emily didn’t move quickly enough.

Daniel stood, crossed the kitchen, grabbed the back of her head and shoulder, and shoved her forward toward the sink.

Patricia calmly took another bite of food.

Then she smiled.

For one horrible second, I froze.

Then twenty years of working as a court reporter took over.

I pulled out my phone.

Pressed record.

And stepped into the room.

“Take your hand off my daughter.”

Daniel released Emily and spun around.