When I opened the front door, I knew something was wrong before I even saw Mia.
The house had that too-quiet feeling, like it was holding its breath, like the air had been told to keep a secret.Mia was at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, backpack still on the floor where she’d dropped it.
Her hair was pulled back too tight.
Her hands were flat on the tabletop, palms down, like she was trying to keep them from trembling.Hey,” I said softly. “What’s going on?”
She looked up, and that’s when I saw it.
The exhaustion that didn’t belong on a 12-year-old.
