My five-year-old daughter hid from her aunt at a family gathering and quietly asked, “Daddy… am I supposed to say sorry?” Moments later, one small test exposed the truth my parents were desperate to cover up.

Lily was sitting on the cold floor, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. Her yellow dress was wrinkled. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and a red mark stretched across one side of her face. There were finger marks on her little arms—not big, not dramatic enough for a stranger to gasp at—but enough for any father to understand that something awful had just happened.

I knelt down in front of her.

“Sweetheart, who did this to you?”

Lily looked down.

“Please don’t be mad, Daddy.”