I knew something was wrong before she even spoke.

When you raise a child from the age of five, grief teaches you the language of silence. You learn the difference between ordinary exhaustion and the kind of quiet that means someone is carrying something too heavy to say out loud.

Emily stood in the entryway still wearing her coat, snow melting slowly from the edges of her boots.

In her hand was a folded piece of paper.

“Grandpa,” she said softly, “we need to talk.”