Later that night, while the house settled into silence and Mary slept in her room down the hall, I lay awake replaying small details I had ignored for weeks. The way she ate more quickly than before. The fatigue that lingered in her posture. The careful way she answered questions without offering more than was required.
Near two in the morning, I stood outside her bedroom door, my hand resting against the wood. A soft night light glowed beneath the frame. I told myself not to worry, that children change, that adolescence reshapes everything. Even so, a single thought repeated itself until it refused to be ignored.
If she was leaving school early, it was not because she wanted to escape responsibility. It was because she believed she had to.
The next morning, I followed my routine exactly as usual. I woke Mary, packed her lunch, and watched her walk toward the bus stop with a wave that looked convincingly normal. I waited until she disappeared around the corner, then I did something I had never done before.
I turned the car around.