That was how I knew something was wrong.
Last week, she came home quiet.
That was how I knew something was wrong.
She put her backpack down neatly, sat at the kitchen table, and just stared at nothing. No TV. No snack request. No rambling story about who did what at recess.
I said, “Hey. You okay?”
She shrugged.
Her mouth trembled.
I made her grilled cheese. She barely touched it.
I sat across from her. “Did something happen at school?”
Her mouth trembled. “It’s Chloe.”
I waited.
Mia looked down at her hands and said, “Her glasses broke during volleyball.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
“The frame snapped. Her lenses are okay, but now they’re taped together, and everyone keeps making fun of her.”
