Later, I went inside to use the bathroom. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that makes you aware of every footstep. When I turned around, Lily was standing in the doorway.
Her face was pale. Her eyes were glassy with tears she was trying not to let fall.
I knelt down immediately and wrapped my arms around her, holding her gently. She clung to me, as though she had been carrying something heavy all day and finally found a place to set it down.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked softly.
She hesitated, then spoke in short, careful words. “I don’t like it when Mom and Dad get angry. They say I’m bad when I don’t listen.”
My heart tightened. I brushed her cheek. “You’re not bad,” I said calmly. “You know that, right?”
She shook her head. “They say I need to learn. And if I talk, I get in trouble.”
Understanding the Weight of Silence
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