When little Emma’s mom came home from work one evening, she noticed her daughter sitting quietly on the couch, unusually serious for a five-year-old.
“Mummy,” Emma said, clutching her stuffed bunny. “When you were at work today, a strange lady came around.”

Her mom froze mid-step. “A strange lady? What do you mean, sweetheart?”
Emma opened her mouth, but before she could answer, her father walked in from the kitchen. “Not now,” her mom said quickly, forcing a smile. “Let’s wait until Daddy gets home from his errands, okay?”

That evening, as the three of them sat down for dinner, Emma’s mom turned to her. “Alright, dear,” she said softly. “You can tell us now. What were you saying about Daddy and the strange lady?” Before Emma could speak, her father’s fork clattered against his plate. “Oh—she must’ve meant the delivery lady,” he stammered, his face pale. But Emma just shook her head.
“No, Daddy. Not her. The lady who came from your car when you thought I was asleep. She kissed you on the cheek and said, ‘She’ll never know.’”

The room fell silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. Her mother’s eyes slowly turned toward her husband. “She’ll never know?” she repeated, her voice calm — too calm. Emma looked from one parent to the other, sensing she’d said something she shouldn’t have. “Did I do something bad, Mummy?” Her mom stood up slowly. “No, sweetheart,” she said, her eyes never leaving her husband’s. “You did everything just right.”