The rest of the afternoon passes too quietly.
Jillie finishes her homework, helps frost cookies, and even laughs once when Mrs. Bellamy accidentally gets powdered sugar on her nose.
But something remains off.
It’s like she's carrying a thought too heavy for her backpack.
And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to reach it.
By closing time, snow has started falling again.
Nothing dramatic, just soft flakes drifting through the glow of the streetlights.
The bakery smells like cinnamon and vanilla.
Normally Jillie loves closing time.
It's our little ritual, with music playing softly, sweeping floors, packing leftover cookies.
Tonight she moves through it all carefully, thoughtfully, like she's somewhere else.
Mrs. Bellamy notices too.
As we're locking up, she crouches beside Jillie.
"Everything all right, sweetheart?"
Jillie nods immediately, too immediately.
"Yep."
Mrs. Bellamy looks unconvinced. So am I, but neither of us pushes. Not yet.
The drive home is quiet, another warning sign.
Usually, Jillie talks the entire way. About school. Friends. Dogs. Clouds. The possibility of owning a pet dragon.
Tonight she watches snowflakes drift across the windshield.
Lost in thought.
By the time we reach the house, my stomach hurts.
Because mothers know. We always know.
We just don't always know why.
***
After dinner, I find her sitting cross-legged on the living room floor.
The family tree assignment rests beside her.
She isn't drawing or coloring.
Just looking at it.
My heart sinks. I sit beside her. For a minute neither of us speaks.
