She was pacing a little, trying to explain why she hadn’t finished the project.
Her words were fast, overlapping.
I interrupted—gently, I thought—and said, “You’re not in trouble. But we do need to figure out what happened here.”
She nodded, then looked down at her hands. “Okay,” she said. But the energy drained from her voice.
I kept talking. I don’t even remember what I said.
Something about responsibility, about asking for help earlier. All reasonable things.
But she stayed quiet. Not defiant, not upset—just quiet in that way she gets when she’s pulled everything inward.
Later that night, she curled up on the couch, half-watching a show, her face unreadable.
And I sat there wondering: Did I help? Or did I just confirm some silent fear she already carries?
