She used to come through the door still talking, mid sentence, practice bag swinging off one shoulder. That was the version of my fifteen year old I had grown used to. The change came slowly enough that I explained it away. Quiet at dinner. Long stretches alone in her room. That nervous glance at her phone whenever it lit up, like she was bracing for something. Every time I asked, she said she was tired. Then one evening Lila came home from cheerleading with red eyes and walked straight past me without a word, locked her door, and refused dinner no matter how often I knocked. The next morning she said she felt sick, so I kept her home. Less than an hour later the principal called and asked me to come see what they had found in her locker.

I drove there certain I had failed her in some enormous way I had not yet identified. He led me down the hallway, took a slow breath, and opened the door.