I called our family dental office in suburban Pennsylvania and arranged an appointment. I expected a quick examination, perhaps some X-rays, and a treatment plan.
When I mentioned the appointment over breakfast, my husband, Nathan, suddenly lowered his coffee cup. “What time are you taking her?” he asked, staring directly at me.
“Ten-thirty,” I answered. “Why?” Nathan glanced toward Sophie, who was quietly eating oatmeal. “I’ll come along,” he said. “I should probably be there for this.”
I almost laughed. In twelve years of marriage, Nathan had attended fewer than five of Sophie’s medical appointments, and most of those were when she was a baby.
He regularly complained that appointments interfered with his work. Even when Sophie broke her wrist at eight, he’d remained at the office until late that evening.
“You don’t have to,” I told him. “It’s probably nothing serious.” But Nathan shook his head. “She’s my daughter, Emily. I have a right to know what’s happening.”
Something about his tone unsettled me. He wasn’t offering to help. He sounded determined to make sure I wouldn’t be alone with the dentist.
Sophie didn’t seem pleased either. When Nathan left the kitchen to retrieve his car keys, she leaned closer and whispered, “Can we just go by ourselves, Mom?”
I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Daddy wants to make sure you’re okay.” She looked down at her breakfast without answering.
I wish I’d paid closer attention to that silence. Looking back, there had been so many small moments when Sophie seemed uncomfortable around her father.
