Family therapists, what’s the darkest secret you’ve ever been expected to keep?

The Breathing Game and the Cover-Up

Family therapists. What’s the darkest secret you’ve ever been expected to keep? I was working with the Sinclair family when the youngest daughter whispered, “I don’t like when mommy plays the breathing game anymore”.

Mrs. Sinclair’s hand shot out, gripping Adelaide’s shoulder. “That’s just pretend, sweetie. Remember what we discussed about keeping family games private?”. Her voice raised.

I kept my expression neutral. “That sounds interesting. Can you tell me how to play?”. The older sister, Penelopey, looked like she was holding back tears.

Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes widened. “Oh, it’s just a silly bedtime routine”. Adelaide beamed with pride.

“Mommy puts the pillow on our faces and counts”. “I can last 73 seconds now”. “Adelaide, that’s enough”. “We practice for when important people visit”.

Adelaide continued, warming to her subject. “The bathtub game helps us hold our breath longer underwater”.

Mrs. Sinclair stood abruptly, yanking Adelaide and Penelopey to their feet. “I think we’ve taken enough of the doctor’s time”.

She was already moving toward the door, dragging both girls. “Mrs. Sinclair, we still have 40 minutes”. “Send me the bill”. She didn’t look back.

I filed my CPS report within the hour. My supervisor called me an hour later. “Maria, you need to be very careful about making accusations against respected community members”.

“The Sinclair’s donate to half the city council’s campaigns”. I tried to argue, but she cut me off. “Drop it”. “That’s not a request”.

At dawn, I drove past their house just to check. A for sale sign stood in the yard, and I called the number.

“Oh, the Sinclair’s. They’re relocating immediately, something about a business opportunity out of state”.

I went back that afternoon with a tin of cookies as my excuse to knock on the door. Mrs. Sinclair answered in yellow rubber gloves that went up to her elbows.

The smell of bleach made me lightheaded. “I forgot to give these to Adelaide yesterday,” I said with a smile. “She mentioned she liked chocolate chip”.

“The girls aren’t here,” she shot quickly. “They’re at their aunts house”. But her children’s shoes sat by the door, still wet.

Behind her, I could hear rhythmic thumping, like someone hitting a wall in a pattern. That’s when her phone buzzed on the entry table.

The preview notification was visible for just a second. “Handler expecting two packages tomorrow morning”. “Confirm the condition”.

Over her shoulder, I could see boxes stacked in the hallway. “Mountain house” written in black marker. I knew the area. Rural, isolated, no cell service. Perfect for hiding things.

“I have things to do,” Mrs. Sinclair spat, starting to close the door. “The moving truck will be here tomorrow morning”. It was 8:15 p.m. I had less than 12 hours to work with.

As she shifted, her keys fell from her pocket. The key ring had medical tape and zip ties attached. “Let me help”.

I bent to pick them up, glimpsing the trash can outside. Empty bottles of pediatric sleep medication.

Adelaide’s doll lay on the porch. Someone had cut off all its hair and drawn red marks across its face. Mrs. Sinclair grabbed the keys from my hand. “You need to leave now”.

The only way to stop the girl’s disappearing forever was to get a confession. I tried one more time, blocking her from closing the door.

“Mrs. Sinclair, please. I know something’s wrong. Let me help”. She laughed, but it sounded like breaking glass. “Help”. “You sent CPS here”.

“Get off my property before I call the police”. I grabbed her wrist as she tried to shut the door. “Where are Adelaide and Penelopey right now?”. “Just tell me they’re safe”.

The door slammed. I heard dead bolts turning.