My 7-year-old daughter and my husband started having locked-door “private talks in the garage” every afternoon — and the silence on the other side of that door got too loud to ignore.I’m 35. My husband, Jason, is 37. Our daughter, Lizzie, is seven.Jason has always been a hands-on dad.School events. Bedtime stories. Hair brushing. Tea parties on the floor. He does it all, without me asking.He showed up every day without complaint.So when the garage thing started, I tried not to be paranoid.The first time, Lizzie came home from school, backpack half open.

Jason wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Hey, kiddo. Garage time?”Her eyes lit up. “Garage time!”I looked up from my laptop. “What’s garage time?”He smirked. “Private talks. You’re not invited.”They laughed and walked to the garage. The door shut. I heard the lock click. The old radio came on.I figured it was some father–daughter game. Cute, whatever.They stayed out there about 40 minutes. When they came back in, Lizzie had a big smile on her face. Jason grabbed a soda as if nothing had happened.