My 7-year-old daughter and my husband started having locked-door “private talks” in the garage every afternoon — and the silence on the other side of that door got too loud to ignore.

I’m 35. My husband, Jason, is 37. Our daughter, Lizzie, is seven.

Jason has always been a hands-on dad.

“Hey, kiddo. Garage time?”

School events. Bedtime stories. Hair brushing. Tea parties on the floor. He does it all, without me asking.

He showed up every day without complaint.

So when the garage thing started, I tried not to be paranoid.

The first time, Lizzie came home from school, backpack half open.

Jason wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Hey, kiddo. Garage time?”

Her eyes lit up. “Garage time!”

They stayed out there about 40 minutes.

I looked up from my laptop. “What’s garage time?”

He smirked. “Private talks. You’re not invited.”

“Yup, you’re not invited, Mom.”

They laughed and walked to the garage. The door shut. I heard the lock click. The old radio came on.

I figured it was some father-daughter game. Cute, whatever.

I heard the radio switch on.

They stayed out there about 40 minutes. When they came back in, Lizzie had a big smile on her face. Jason grabbed a soda as if nothing had happened.

Next day, same thing.

“Garage time?”

“Garage time!”

I heard the radio switch on.

“You’ll see.”

By the third day, something in my chest was tight.

That night, while we did the dishes, I said, “So what’s going on in these private talks?”

Jason shrugged. “Just hanging out. Talking.”

“About what?”

He grinned. “Private talks. You’ll see.”