Every night for the past year, my five-year-old daughter would disappear into the bathroom with my husband for more than an hour, the sound of running water and their laughter echoing through the house while I waited alone in the living room, telling myself it was innocent father-daughter bonding time. I had trusted him completely — the man I had married eight years ago, the man who called our daughter his “little princess,” the man who insisted on giving her baths himself because “moms don’t understand how special this time is.” But tonight, when I finally gathered the courage to ask my daughter what they did in there for so long, her tiny face crumpled, tears spilling down her cheeks as she whispered through sobs, “Daddy says I can’t talk about the games in the bath… he says it’s our secret and if I tell, he’ll be very sad and it will be my fault.