We had the kind of life people call lucky without looking too closely.
A white colonial with black shutters on a street lined with maple trees. A kitchen with too many coffee mugs and not enough cabinet space. A fifteen-year-old daughter named Lily who rolled her eyes when I asked too many questions, borrowed my hoodies without asking, and left half-finished sketches all over the house like tiny pieces of herself she forgot to pick up.
I worked part-time at a dental office in Needham. My husband, Daniel Carter, ran a residential renovation business with two crews and a polished reputation. He was the kind of man neighbors trusted with spare keys and recommendations. Calm voice. Firm handshake. Helpful with snowblowers and storm windows.
Lily was a sophomore. Smart. Funny when she wanted to be. Quiet more often these last several months, but I told myself that was what fifteen looked like now. Headphones on. Bedroom door closed. Answers in shrugs. A girl making her way through the chaos of becoming herself.
I told myself a lot of things.
That she was moody because high school was brutal.
That she was pulling away because that was normal.
