I’m sitting at my cramped kitchen table just after dinner, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. Everything feels ordinary, yet something is about to shift. I glance at my teenage daughter across from me, seeing her absorbed in a quiet thought. The air is dense, loaded with the unsaid.
She suddenly blurts out, “Truths.” The word lands between us, heavy and unresolved. It’s not framed as a question or a continuation—just the word, like an anchor pulling at something submerged. I avoid her eyes, feeling the weight of what she might be about to say and not sure I’m ready to hear it.
The room feels smaller, compressed by the tension of what lies beneath her simple statement. I sense her testing the waters, but I’m not sure if I can dive in or even hold what’s beneath. Her eyes search mine, and I know this moment matters. It feels like the beginning of something that could unravel the careful balance we maintain.
Her silence is louder than words, echoing the unspoken strain that has escalated in small, telling steps. The missed homework, the clipped responses, the whispered arguments with friends. All leading to this moment.
“Truths,” she repeated, and I realized she was waiting for me to respond, to acknowledge the crack forming between us. But my mouth stays shut, my mind racing for the right approach.
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