The Tuesday morning sunlight slipped through the kitchen blinds, casting soft stripes across the table as Tony Glass poured coffee into his daughter’s favorite mug—the one with tiny cartoon elephants she swore made everything taste better.
Across from him, seven-year-old Emma sat unusually quiet.
Her fork nudged scrambled eggs around her plate, but she didn’t eat. That alone was enough to make Tony pause. Breakfast was usually her favorite time of day—a flood of stories about school, games, and imaginary worlds only she could see.
But today, the kitchen felt different. Still. Heavy.
“Dad…” she said softly.
Tony turned, studying her face. “Yeah, baby?”
She hesitated, fingers curling against the table’s edge.
“Do you really have to go to Boston?”
It was the third time she’d asked.
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