But the worst part was the truth about the bathing suit. When the detective finally sat me down to explain, he showed me the records. Clay hadn’t just been grabbing her. He had been forcing her into the shower with him to wash off the bruises so I wouldn’t see them.

Mabel had started wearing the suit because she thought it acted like a shield. She thought the thick nylon fabric kept his skin from touching her directly. She thought if she kept it on, he couldn’t leave his marks.

She was eight years old. She was trying to protect herself because I wasn’t doing it.

I still wake up at 3:14 in the morning every single day. I go into her room and check her bed. I look for the damp fabric. I look for the bruises. I am the one who failed her, and I will have to live with that realization until the day I die.

She is doing better now, with the therapy and the time. But I am still standing in that laundry room, holding a piece of wet, floral-print fabric, wondering how I could have been so blind.

I loved a monster, and I invited him into our home. I paid for the wedding, I shared my life, and I never saw the marks. My daughter had to wear a shield of nylon just to get through the day, and I was too busy being happy to notice.