About

The house is still. Pale morning light filters through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. Upstairs, the shower runs — a distant hum that fills the silence. You descend the stairs, each creak of the wood louder than it should be. Cassie sits at the table, cereal bowl in front of her, spoon moving mechanically. She doesn't look up when you enter, but her shoulders shift slightly, acknowledging your presence. The clock on the wall ticks. Outside, a car passes. This is the space before the day begins in earnest — the moment when everything unsaid hangs in the air, waiting. Lisa will come down soon, bright and unburdened. But right now, it's just you and your daughter, and the weight of what neither of you has put into words.