Usually, Maya announced herself before she had even removed her shoes.
“Mom, what are we eating?”
“Mom, can I have a snack?”
“Mom, I forgot my science worksheet.”
That day, I heard only the dull thud of her backpack against the hallway wall.
“Maya?” I called.
No answer.
I put down the knife and wiped my hands. A strange uneasiness moved through me before I even reached the living room.
She stood beside the couch with her coat zipped to her chin. Her hood covered her head, and her backpack was still strapped tightly over both shoulders. She looked as though she wanted to become smaller than the room around her.
“Sweetheart?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor.
I stepped closer. “Did something happen at school?”
She gave the faintest shake of her head.
“Maya, please look at me.”
When she did, her eyes were swollen and red.
My heart began to pound.
