The first time my daughter said she didn’t want to go home, I thought she was just being dramatic.
She was eight. Kids say things.
We were sitting in my car outside her school in Columbus, and she had her backpack on her lap, zipped all the way up like she was protecting something.
“Can we just stay here a little longer?” she asked.
I checked the time. “We have to go, Emma.”
She didn’t move.
“Please,” she said again, quieter this time.
I looked at her properly then. Not the usual quick glance. A real look.
Her eyes weren’t watery. She wasn’t about to cry.
She was… calculating.
Like she was trying to decide something.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said immediately.
Too fast.
I started the car anyway.
Kids go through phases, I told myself.
On the drive home, she didn’t say a word.
Not one.