The anticipation of the family meeting gnaws at me, a constant undercurrent to every thought and action.
My parents and sister seem oblivious to the strain their actions have caused.
They see my concerns as overreactions, my need for control as unnecessary.
I wish they could understand my perspective, see through my eyes the world I’m trying to navigate for my daughter.
The river incident was a culmination of months of unspoken tensions, a silent battle I’ve fought alone.
But now the stakes feel higher, the potential consequences more serious.
My daughter’s safety is paramount, an unwavering priority amid the chaos.
While they see a carefree child learning independence, I see a little girl exposed to risks she’s not ready to handle.
In my mind, I replay the moments on the boat, each second stretching into an eternity of what-ifs.
The river, once a source of joy, now seems a reminder of the widening gap between us.
As the meeting approaches, I find myself rehearsing possible conversations, searching for the right words to convey my concerns without igniting further conflict.
But words feel inadequate, a poor substitute for the depth of my feelings.
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