When the Light Went Out
It didn’t happen all at once.
No dramatic meltdown. No obvious event.
Just little shifts that, in hindsight, were screaming.
Lily started moving slower in the morning.
She sighed the way adults sigh when they’re trying not to break.
She began fidgeting with her socks like they were made of thorns.
She slept more, but never looked rested.
Her shoes “didn’t feel right.”
Tears showed up without explanation.
I tried to rationalize it.
Shorter days.
Seasonal change.
Kids go through phases.
Then one morning I found her sitting on the edge of her bed in pajamas, staring at her sneakers like they were dangerous.
“Sweetheart,” I said, kneeling in front of her, “we need to get dressed. We’ll be late.”
She didn’t look at me.
Her lip wobbled.
“Mommy… I don’t want to go.”
My stomach tightened instantly.
“Why not? Did something happen?”
She shook her head hard.
“No. I just… I don’t like it there.”
“Did someone say something mean?”
Her eyes dropped to the carpet.
“No. I’m just tired.”
But the fear in her face didn’t match the words.
And that afternoon, she came out of school walking like she was carrying a weight twice her size.
Head down.
Backpack clutched tight.
Her pink sweater had a thick black marker line across the front.
And her drawings — the ones she used to show off like trophies — were crumpled at the corners.
At dinner, she didn’t eat.
She pushed peas around her plate like it was her job.
“Lily,” I said, keeping my voice calm, “you know you can tell me anything, right?”
She nodded without looking up.
“Uh-huh.”
“Is someone being mean to you?”
“No,” she said again.
But her voice cracked.
She ran to her room.
I wanted to believe her.
But I could feel it in my bones.
Something was wrong.
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