That evening, the parent-teacher meeting unfolds with a predictable rhythm. Polite smiles, nods, and the underlying tension of unspoken concerns. Her teachers express their worries gently but firmly, highlighting areas where she’s been slipping.
“She’s bright, but distracted,” one of them says, looking at me with a kind of knowing sympathy. “Is everything okay at home?”
I nod, a reflexive gesture, even as I feel the weight of the question pressing down. “We’re managing,” I reply, my voice steady but hollow. I thank them for their time and assurances that we’ll work on things.
As I drive home, the streetlights blur through the windshield, and I find myself rehearsing how to begin our conversation. How to peel back the layers without unraveling everything we’ve held together so far.
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