The next morning, the sun streamed through the kitchen window as I made breakfast.
My daughter sat at the table, doodling in her notebook.
She seemed quieter, a shadow of yesterday lingering in her eyes.
“Mom, why did she say that?”
Her question caught me off guard, each word a tiny dagger.
I paused, the toast forgotten in the toaster.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I replied softly.
It was the truth, as painful as it was.
We continued in silence, the clinking of cutlery the only interruption.
Later, at work, my mind drifted back to the garden.
