It was the silence.
Maya used to talk to me about everything. Now she avoided eye contact. Her answers came short and cautious. And whenever Robert walked into a room, her shoulders tightened, just a little—but enough for a mother to notice.
One night, well past midnight, I heard a soft sound coming from her room.
I opened the door and found her curled into herself, knees pulled tight to her chest, tears soaking into her pillow.
“Mom,” she whispered, barely audible, “it hurts. I can’t make it stop.”
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