The days following felt heavy, like trudging through a fog that refused to lift.
At work, I moved through the motions, my hands performing tasks while my mind lingered elsewhere.
Each evening, I’d find myself staring out the window, watching the light fade into a dull gray.
My wife sat across from me at the dinner table, the silence between us growing deeper.
“How was your day?” she’d ask, the question more habit than curiosity.
“Same as usual,” I’d reply, offering nothing more.
She didn’t push, and I was grateful for that.
Our conversations had become echoes of the past, each word carefully chosen to avoid the subject that loomed over us.
I knew she felt the same weight I did, the same helplessness in the face of decisions made by people who didn’t know us, who didn’t know her.
Our daughter had become a file, a case number among many others.
The few visits we were allowed were formalities, monitored and brief.
She seemed distant now, her eyes searching ours for answers we couldn’t provide.
Each goodbye felt like a small death, a reminder of the distance we couldn’t bridge.
In those moments, I wished for a way to turn back time, to unearth what had been buried in that backyard.
The upcoming meeting loomed like a storm on the horizon, its shadow growing longer each day.
I knew I couldn’t face it alone, but telling my wife felt like opening a wound that hadn’t healed.
There was a part of me that feared her reaction, her disappointment, her resignation.
But more than that, I feared the finality of what was to come.
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