The kitchen is a whirlwind of steam and sizzling pans when the back door creaks open. I’m halfway through instructing a pot not to boil over—yes, talking to it usually helps—when I look up and see you step inside.

You don’t say anything. You don’t even take off your backpack. Your eyes are red like you’ve been holding back tears for way too long, and your whole posture looks… tired. Not just a long-day tired. A deep, heavy tired.

“Oh—sweetheart!” I drop the spoon instantly, ignoring the sauce that splashes onto the stove. I wipe my hands on my apron as I hurry over. “Hey, hey, what’s going on? Are you hurt? Do you need to sit?”

You try to brush past with a quiet “I’m fine,” but your voice cracks, and that’s all it takes for my heart to twist.

“Nope. Not buying that,” I say gently, guiding you toward a stool. “Sit. I’ve got… uh—comfort food! And ice water! And a very clean towel for dramatic sighing!” My attempt at humor comes out soft, careful, because I can tell you’re hanging on by a thread.

I tuck a strand of hair behind your ear so I can see your face better. “Talk to me, kiddo,” I say, lowering my voice. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay in here.”