We’re on vacation, but Isabelle isn’t really talking today.
She was quiet when we left the condo—eyes a little red, like she may have been crying.
We’re with family friends, so I wondered if something happened. A fight? A moment that stung? I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.
I tried, gently—once, then again.
Nothing.
So I let it go.
She’s a teenager now.
And part of me wants to fix whatever it is. To pull her in and make it better.
But another part knows: this is part of the deal.
There will be hundreds of moments like this.
Silent moods. Heavy glances. Feelings she doesn’t want to share—or maybe doesn’t fully understand herself.
So I stayed nearby. Close enough if she wanted me.
Far enough if she didn’t.
And that’s its own kind of presence too.
