I laughed through my tears.
“Of course.”
That evening, I stayed in the bathroom while Dad finished the game.
This time, I watched how carefully he worked.
He explained every step to Emily, checked whether the water felt comfortable, and reminded her that she could stop whenever she wanted.
She confidently tilted her head back and closed her eyes.
“Ready?” Dad asked.
“Ready!”
He squeezed the duck.
“Duck!” she shouted.
Then he tapped the cup.
“Cup!”
Finally, he gently splashed the plastic boat.
“Boat!”
“Three correct answers!” Dad announced.
Emily raised both arms triumphantly.
“Three stars!”
Watching them together, I realized something I'd overlooked.
Dad wasn't merely distracting her.
He was giving her a sense of control over something that had frightened her.
She knew what was happening, she understood the rules, and she could turn an unpleasant task into an enjoyable experience.
His patience reminded me of the father who had raised me.
After Emily was dressed in her pajamas and tucked into bed, I returned downstairs.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking the tea I'd made for him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I sat opposite him.
“I'm sorry, Dad.”
He put down his cup.
“For what?”
“For thinking something terrible might be happening.”
He considered my words.
“Sarah, fear can be powerful, especially when it involves someone we love.”
“I almost accused you of something awful.”
“But you didn't. You came to see what was happening.”
I stared into my tea.
“I feel as though I betrayed your trust.”
He reached across the table and took my hand.
“You trusted me enough to let me care for Emily. But you're still responsible for her safety. Those two things don't have to be enemies.”
I looked at him through fresh tears.
“Were you hurt?”
He thought for a moment.
“Surprised, certainly. But if you were frightened, I'm glad you found out what was happening.”
Then he smiled.
“Next time, though, perhaps we can start with a conversation instead of giving your old father a heart attack.”
I laughed.
“Deal.”
Before he left, we talked about how to make bath time clearer for everyone.
I would remain responsible for Emily's routine, and Dad could join our playful guessing game whenever we were comfortable with it.
We also agreed never to describe anything involving her body or personal care as a secret from her parents.
The important thing was that Emily understood she could ask questions, express discomfort, and tell us anything without fear of upsetting someone.
When Dad finally stood to leave, he paused beside the front door.
“Oh, Sarah,” he said.
“Yes?”
“There's something else about that game.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
He smiled.
“It isn't new.”
I looked at him, confused.
“What do you mean?”
“You were afraid of having your hair washed too.”
I stared at him.
“You're joking.”
“Not at all. When you were about five, you got soap in your eyes one afternoon and refused to let anyone wash your hair for nearly a week.”
I tried to remember.
Dad continued.
“So I invented a little guessing game. You closed your eyes, and I made noises with the toys in the bathtub.”
Something stirred deep in my memory.
A small yellow bathroom.
Warm water.
My father's voice asking me to listen carefully.
A squeaking toy.
Laughter.
Then, suddenly, the memory came rushing back.
I remembered sitting in the bathtub, my hair covered in bubbles.
Dad had been beside me, gently pouring water over my head while asking me to identify the sounds.
“Guess what it is,” he would say.
I remembered squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as possible, determined not to cheat.
And I remembered feeling safe.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh, Dad.”
He smiled.
“You always guessed the duck first.”
A tear rolled down my cheek.
“How could I have forgotten?”
“Because you were five, sweetheart. And because childhood is full of little moments that don't always stay in our memories.”
He looked toward the staircase.
“But sometimes those moments come back when we least expect them.”
I hugged him.
For several seconds, I held him the way I used to when I was little.
He patted my back.
“See? Some things never change.”