My father materialized behind her, wearing his usual expression: neutral, patient, slightly bored. He looked like a man who hadn’t had an original thought since 1998 and was fiercely proud of his consistency.
“Where is she?” I asked, bypassing the pleasantries.
And then Maya stepped into view.
She didn’t run to me. She didn’t bounce on the balls of her feet. She didn’t launch into the rapid-fire, hundred-mile-per-hour report she usually delivers after being away from me for longer than a trip to the grocery store. She just stood there—quiet, eyes fixed on the floorboards, clutching the strap of her dance bag like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
My stomach tightened, a cold knot of instinct forming instantly.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light, fighting the urge to grab her. “I missed you.”
She hugged me back, but her body was stiff, unyielding. It was the hug you give a relative at a funeral, not a mother you haven’t seen in a week.
My mother patted my arm, her touch light and dismissive. “She’s just tired, Sarah. Big week. Lots of… lessons learned.”
I looked at my daughter’s face. Her eyes weren’t just tired; they were dull, vacated. Her mouth was pressed into a tight, white line, the kind kids affect when they are trying desperately not to cry, not to speak, not to exist.
“Thanks for watching her,” I said automatically, the reflex of a daughter raised to say thank you before knowing what the gift was.
“Of course,” my mother beamed, straightening a decorative vase. “Family takes care of family.”
My father nodded once. “Drive safe.”
That was it. No details. No anecdotes. No “by the way, we need to discuss an incident.” Just the fake smile, the neutral nod, and my daughter standing there looking like she had aged five years in seven days.
I waited until we were in the car, the safety of the heavy doors sealing us in. I started the engine, and the interior light clicked off, narrowing the world down to the dashboard glow and the hum of the road.
“So,” I started, keeping my eyes on the asphalt. “How was it? How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Maya said. The word was flat. Dead on arrival.
I tried again, casually, handling the conversation like a bomb defusal. “Did you sleep okay? Did you have fun with Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s dance going? You have the big showcase on Saturday, right?”
Silence stretched out between us, thick and suffocating. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her bag.
“I’m not on the team anymore,” she whispered.
I slammed on the brakes inside my chest, though my foot stayed steady on the gas. “What do you mean you’re not on the team anymore?”
“They kicked me out.” The words were matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion, which was far scarier than tears.
“Why would they kick you out?”
She didn’t answer. She stared out the window at the passing streetlights, each one a flash of interrogation.
“Sweetheart,” I said, my voice softening, “Why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
That sentence hit harder than the confession. Maya talks about everything. She talks about the hum of the refrigerator, the weird earrings her history teacher wears, the way the sky looks before it rains. When she says she doesn’t want to talk, it means she is carrying something too heavy to lift.
I tried one last tactic to pull her back to normalcy. “Well, we need to pick up a gift for Sophie’s birthday on Saturday.”
Maya’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going.”
