For weeks, my daughter came home with dim eyes and silent tears.
She stopped talking about glitter glue disasters and the class hamster.
She stopped running into my arms at pickup.
And every time I asked what was wrong, she gave the same answer in a voice that didn’t sound like her.
“Nothing.”
I tried to believe her.
I tried to believe it was just a phase.
But my instincts wouldn’t shut up.
So one morning, I did something I never thought I’d do.
I slipped a recorder into her backpack.
And what I heard later made my blood run cold.
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