Chapter 4 - What Paige Told the Social Worker
The social worker arrived about twenty minutes later. Her name was Renee — young, maybe early thirties, kind eyes, the kind of calm presence built specifically to steady frightened families.
"Hi, Paige," she said gently. "Would it be okay if we talked for a little while?"
Paige glanced at me. I squeezed her hand. "It's okay," I said softly.
Renee led her into a smaller office down the hall. The door closed, and I was left alone in the waiting area, the hallway too quiet, my thoughts racing.
Pregnant. The word kept echoing inside my head. Fifteen. My daughter was still a child. She barely dated. Most of her time went to school, home, and a small group of friends I'd known for years. How could something like this have happened without me noticing?
Unless. My stomach twisted. No. I refused to jump to conclusions.
But Renee's earlier words kept circling back. We need to make sure she's safe. Why would they say that if this was just an ordinary teenage mistake?
I paced the hallway. Thirty minutes passed. Then forty. By the time the door finally opened, my nerves felt scraped raw.
Paige came out first, eyes swollen from crying. Renee followed close behind her, and her expression had changed — the warmth was still there, but now it carried something heavier. Concern.
"Mrs. Doyle," she said softly. "Could we talk for a moment?"
My heart started pounding again. "Of course."
She gestured toward a pair of chairs. I couldn't sit. "Please," I said. "Just tell me."
Renee took a slow breath. "Paige told me the pregnancy wasn't the result of a consensual relationship."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?" I choked out.
"She said someone hurt her."
My knees went weak. I gripped the back of a chair to stay upright. "Hurt her — how?"
Renee's voice softened. "She was assaulted."
The world tilted sideways. My daughter. My baby. Someone had hurt her, and I hadn't known. A sob escaped my chest before I could stop it.
"Who?" I whispered desperately. "Who did this to her?"
Renee hesitated. That hesitation sent ice straight through my veins.
"She wasn't ready to say," she said gently. "But she indicated it's someone she sees regularly."
The air around me seemed to shrink. Someone she sees regularly. A friend? A teacher? A neighbor?
Then Renee asked a question that made my heart skip. "Does Paige feel safe at home?"
I stared at her. "Of course she does," I said automatically. But even as the words left my mouth, my voice sounded uncertain to my own ears. Because suddenly memories were surfacing — small moments I'd let myself ignore. Paige flinching when Gary raised his voice. Her refusal to sit next to him on the couch. The way she'd started locking her bedroom door at night.
My stomach twisted violently. No. That wasn't possible. Gary was strict. Distant, sometimes. But he would never—
Renee placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Sometimes children stay silent," she said softly, "because they're afraid no one will believe them." A pause. "Or because they're trying to protect someone."
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Protect someone. The words echoed inside my skull. My legs finally gave out, and I sank into the chair behind me. For the first time, a terrifying thought crept into my mind.
What if the danger had never been outside our home? What if it had been there all along?
