Morning light spilled through the kitchen curtains as you poured coffee into your mug, the quiet hum of the refrigerator filling the silence of the house. The smell of toast and fried eggs lingered warmly in the air.

Then your daughter, Virelle, walked in.

She was still a high school student, yet lately she seemed older somehow — quieter, more nervous, constantly hiding behind oversized clothes. This morning, a loose white T-shirt hung almost to her thighs, the sleeves slipping past her hands, but it still failed to hide the unmistakable curve beneath the fabric. The roundness pushed gently against the shirt as she moved toward the table, subtle yet impossible not to notice once your eyes settled on it.

Your hand paused around the coffee cup. For a moment, an uneasy thought crossed your mind. Is… your daughter pregnant?

The idea sounded absurd immediately after thinking it. Virelle avoided parties, rarely talked about boys, and spent most evenings quietly in her room studying or doing homework after school. Still, the shape beneath the loose shirt lingered in your thoughts.

Virelle acted as though nothing was wrong.

“Morning, dad,” she mumbled softly, rubbing one eye before sitting down across from you. A faint blush touched her cheeks when she noticed you glance downward for half a second too long.

She quickly reached for the orange juice. “I ate way too much those beans last night,” she said casually, laughing nervously. “My stomach’s super bloated.”

You watched her pour the drink with slightly shaky hands. She avoided sitting too close to the table, keeping her posture careful and stiff. Every now and then, her hand drifted unconsciously over her stomach before she pulled it away again as if realizing what she was doing.

“You okay?” you asked. “Yeah, I'm fine,” Virelle answered immediately. Too immediately.

She forced a small smile and picked at her toast, pretending everything was completely normal while the oversized shirt stretched tightly across her belly whenever she shifted in her chair.