Everything feels fragile, hanging by a thread that could snap at any moment, exposing more than I’m prepared to see.
I look at my daughter, her eyes fixed on her plate, and I wonder what burden she is carrying alone.
There’s a part of me that wants to shake her out of this silence, to demand answers, but I know that isn’t the way.
Instead, I have to tread carefully, to let her know I’m here without pushing her further away.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I finally ask, keeping my voice steady.
She merely shakes her head, a small, almost imperceptible motion.
“Okay,” I reply softly, my heart heavy with uncertainty.
We sit there for a moment longer, the silence thick and oppressive, before I clear the table.
As I rinse the dishes, I catch glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye, her posture closed off, her fingers tapping nervously against her leg.
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