David looked up from his paper, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Emma’s been wanting to keep her distance from Dad lately. I think she’s hitting puberty early.”

“She’s only eight,” Rachel laughed, placing a stack of pancakes on Emma’s plate. But a small, nagging worry had already taken root. For the past few months, Emma, who used to leap into her father’s arms, now often watched him from afar, her expression a mixture of love and deep confusion.

As if on cue, Emma wrinkled her nose. “Dad, you smell different,” she murmured into her fork.