When I picked her up that afternoon, she didn’t run into my arms like she usually did. She strolled, head down, clutching her backpack like it was the only thing holding her together. Her pink sweater had a thick black line across the front, like someone had drawn on it with a marker.
Her drawings, the ones she used to show me proudly every afternoon, were crumpled at the bottom corners.
“Lily,” I said carefully, “you know you can tell me anything, right?”
She nodded without looking up. “Uh-huh.”
“Is someone being mean to you?”
“No,” she said again, but this time her voice cracked.Continue reading…
