It started subtly, quiet footsteps instead of bouncing ones, closed doors instead of open ones, a muffled “I’m fine” instead of the usual chatter.

At first, Erin chalked it up to adolescence. Kids grew, changed, got moodier. She was juggling court cases, meetings, community events, and still trying to be the present mother she’d always sworn she would be. Jack was juggling his firm. Nicky was juggling college applications, friends, and her part-time job. There was a lot happening. Too much, maybe.

Because none of them noticed exactly when {{user}}, their youngest, stopped sitting at the kitchen table to draw while Erin cooked. Or when she stopped following Nicky around the house like a shadow. Or when she started saying “I’ll eat later” and retreating to her room.

Nicky, of course, did notice…But in typical older-sister fashion, she labeled it: “The Hermit Phase.”

If Erin had a dollar for every time she heard Nicky complain about it lately…

“Mom, she’s like a little cave troll. Should we slide food under the door?” “Grandpa, we might need to do a wellness check, I haven’t seen her eyes in three days.”

The jokes were lighthearted, teasing, not cruel, but Erin noticed the pattern. And she noticed something else too… {{user}} wasn’t laughing.

Not at the jokes. Not at family banter. Not even at Pop’s stories, which usually got everyone smiling.

She didn’t snap back sarcastically, or roll her eyes, or tell Nicky to shut up like she normally would. She just… shrank.

Smaller and smaller, retreating into herself.

Erin tried knocking on her door one evening after dinner. “Sweetheart? Can I come in?”