The afternoon was supposed to be simple joy: sunlight spilling across the backyard, the smell of grilled food drifting through the air, kids shrieking with laughter as they splashed in the pool. It was the kind of gathering meant to freeze time, a snapshot of family warmth and ease.
Then Lily arrived.
Four years old, small for her age, she moved differently. Her older brother, Leo, dashed toward the pool, shoes abandoned, excitement bubbling over. Lily lingered behind, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the ground. When her grandmother knelt to hug her, Lily flinched—not dramatically, but instinctively, like someone bracing for pain.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” her grandmother asked, voice soft, steady.
Lily’s nod came too quickly, rehearsed.
When it was time for swimsuits, Leo bounded off, thrilled. Lily lingered, twisting her dress hem. “My stomach hurts… can I sit out?” she murmured. Her grandmother tried to meet her gaze, but Lily’s parents stepped in.
Ryan sighed sharply, irritation cutting through the air. “She’s being dramatic again.”
Melissa crossed her arms. “Don’t start, Mom. She does this for attention.”
The words weren’t annoyance—they were control. The grandmother nodded outwardly, but unease spread in her chest. Children get shy, get tired. But they don’t shrink into themselves without reason.
Continue reading on next page…