I shook my head.
“You think one dinner is going to teach a fifteen-year-old boy how to treat a girl?”
“No. But it might teach our daughter something about how to treat herself.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I watched him pick up another plate.
For the first time since Emma had told us what happened, I realized that my husband wasn’t ignoring the problem.
He was trying to approach it without taking away our daughter’s voice.
I still wasn’t sure his plan would work.
But I agreed to let him try.
The next morning, Daniel called Tyler.
I was standing near the kitchen doorway when I heard him speaking.
“Hey, Tyler. It’s Mr. Miller. How are you doing?”
A pause.
“Good, good. Listen, your schedule free Sunday evening?”
Another pause.
“Great. Why don’t you come over for dinner? Your mom doesn’t have to do anything special. Six o’clock sound good?”
