Lily Thompson
Something was off the moment Isabella got in the car.
She didn’t bounce into the backseat like she usually did. No excited chatter about what her friends wore or who won at recess. Just a quiet “hi,” then silence, her backpack clutched in her lap like a shield.
Ryan noticed it too. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Rough day, Bells?”
She shrugged, staring out the window.
I turned around in my seat. “Sweetheart? Did something happen?”
“No,” she said too quickly. “I’m fine.”
But she didn’t look fine. She looked like someone had taken the sunshine out of her.
At home, she barely touched her after-school snack. No coloring, no cartoons, no asking if Ryan and I could help her pick between being a doctor or a pirate. Just quiet. Moody. Withdrawn.
I sat beside her
