“Can I please get up now?”

My daughter, little Ruby, she was standing there by the dining table. She’s seven. She used to be a real spitfire, you know. A regular little colt. She would bolt from her seat the second she was done eating, maybe even before, just to go chase the squirrels in the backyard or get back to her dolls.

But lately, she is different. She asks permission for everything. She asks to get a glass of water. She asks to use the bathroom. She even asks if she can speak when we are sitting there in the living room.

I married Marty two years ago. We had that big church wedding down on the river. It cost us $18,422 and some change, money we didn’t really have at the time, but I wanted it to be perfect for us. For us three.

Marty was so good with her at the start. He coached her soccer team. He packed her lunches with little notes inside. He really seemed to care, and I thought, well, I thought I’d finally found a good one. A man who would help me raise her right.

Last night, I sat on the edge of her bed after I tucked her in. I asked her why she was acting so quiet, so careful. I just wanted to know what was going on in that little head of hers.

She pulled her knees up to her chest. She looked like she was trying to shrink herself into the mattress.

“Marty has rules for when you’re at work,” she whispered.

I held very still. I didn’t want to scare her, but my heart started hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“What rules, baby?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as a mountain.

She picked at the corner of her quilt. She wouldn’t look at me. She just stared at the pattern, tracing the stitching over and over.

“I’m not allowed to sit on the furniture,” she said, her voice small and trembling. “I have to stand in the corner until my legs shake.”