The evening stretched on, a tension hanging in the air that neither of us acknowledged.
Emma sat curled up on the couch, her eyes fixed on the TV screen but not really watching.
I busied myself with dinner, the clattering of pots and pans filling the silence.
Every now and then, I would glance over at her, hoping she would look up and say something.
Anything.
But she remained in her own world, her silence a barrier I couldn’t penetrate.
As we sat down to eat, I tried to breach the gap.
“Anything exciting happen at school today?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
She shrugged, poking at her food.
“Not really,” she muttered.
I nodded, the conversation stalling again.
The note weighed heavily on my mind, but I didn’t want to push her.
Not yet.
Later, after dinner, as she was getting ready for bed, I knocked softly on her bedroom door.
“Emma, can we talk for a minute?”
There was a pause before she opened the door slightly, her face half-hidden in shadow.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice wary.
I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully.
“I found a note in your backpack,” I began.
Her eyes widened, panic flashing across her face.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she whispered.
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