Lily
Mommy thinks I don’t see things.
She thinks because I’m six, my eyes only work for toys and cartoons and coloring books. She thinks if she doesn’t say something out loud, it doesn’t exist.
But I see everything.
I saw the way she moved slower this morning, like her bones were heavier than yesterday. I saw how she stood at the sink longer than she needed to, staring at nothing while the water ran. I saw the way her mouth pressed into a straight line when she thought I wasn’t looking.
She didn’t sing while she packed my lunch.
That’s how I knew something was different.
Usually she hums. Not real songs, just pieces of them. Sounds without words. Today there was nothing. Just the sound of bread and plastic and the fridge opening and closing.
I sat at the table with my legs swinging
