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The next day dawns far too quickly, and the morning routine is a blur of motion and muted conversations.
We drive to school in silence, the radio playing softly in the background.
At the school, I drop her off and watch as she disappears into the building, my heart a restless ache.
Later, I find myself in the counselor’s office, the walls closing in around me as I wait for the meeting to begin.
The counselor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, greets me with a firm handshake.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, motioning for me to sit.
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“Of course,” I reply, my voice steady even as my hands tremble slightly.
We begin to talk, her questions probing gently but firmly, and I struggle to maintain my composure.
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