Every afternoon after school, my seven-year-old daughter Lizzie and my husband Jason vanished into the garage and shut the door behind them. The radio clicked on, the lock slid into place, and Lizzie would remind me—very seriously—that this was “their special time.”
Jason has always been a hands-on, affectionate dad, so I tried to ignore the small knot forming in my chest. Still, the secrecy lingered. I trusted my husband, but unanswered questions have a way of growing louder the longer they’re left alone.
After several days of brushing it off, curiosity finally took over. I placed a small camera in the garage, preparing myself for whatever I might uncover. What I found instead completely disarmed me.
Hidden beneath an old rolled-up rug was a cozy little corner Jason had created—pillows, baskets, and neatly stacked yarn. Sitting side by side on the floor were my husband and daughter, quietly knitting.
Lizzie was carefully working on a pink sweater, her tongue poking out in concentration. Jason sat beside her, guiding her hands while knitting a larger gray one of his own. They laughed softly when stitches slipped and celebrated every finished row like a victory.
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