But silence has a way of working on your imagination.
One Sunday, while folding laundry, doubt slipped in quietly and refused to leave.What if I was mistaking politeness for innocence?
What if trust was making me careless?
What if one day I’d wish I had intervened sooner?
I stood there holding a warm towel, my heart racing for reasons I couldn’t fully justify. I told myself I’d only check. Just a glance. Just to ease my mind.
I walked down the hallway faster than I meant to. Stopped outside her door. Took a breath.
Then I opened it.
And everything inside me stopped.
They weren’t on the bed.
They weren’t touching.
They weren’t even looking at each other.
Both of them were kneeling on the floor.
Between them lay a wide piece of cardboard covered in drawings, handwritten notes, printed photos, and color-coded markings. Notebooks were spread open. Markers lay uncapped. A laptop sat nearby, paused mid-slideshow.
They looked up at me at the same time.
“Mom,” my daughter said, startled. Her cheeks flushed. “You weren’t supposed to see this yet.”
I blinked. “See… what?”
Noah stood immediately. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “We were going to clean it up.”
My daughter came over and took my hand—gentle, steady.
