I was sitting at the kitchen table, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the room.
My daughter, Emma, had just returned home from school, her backpack slung over one shoulder, as she dropped it with a heavy thud onto the floor.
Something about the way she avoided eye contact caught my attention.
“How was school?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Fine,” she replied, her voice clipped, as she shuffled past me to the living room.
I watched her disappear around the corner, a knot forming in my stomach.
Emma had been quieter than usual lately, and as a parent, I knew that silence often spoke volumes.
I sat there, waiting for a moment to pass, before I stood up and walked over to her abandoned backpack.
The zipper was slightly open, and I could see the corner of a piece of paper sticking out.
Hesitating for a moment, I reached down and pulled the paper free.
It was a note, written in shaky handwriting that wasn’t Emma’s.
I read the words slowly, my eyes widening with each sentence.
“If you don’t… everyone will know,” it said.
My heart raced as I tried to process what I was reading.
I glanced toward the living room where the quiet hum of the TV mingled with Emma’s subdued presence.
I folded the note carefully and slipped it back into the backpack, my mind racing with questions.
What was this about?
And why hadn’t Emma told me?
