In the counselor’s office, the air is thick with the unspoken.
They begin with pleasantries, formalities that do little to ease the tension.
I nod, my responses automatic, my mind elsewhere.
They begin talking about my child, their observations aligning with what the neighbor had shared.
Withdrawn, quiet, struggling.
My heart sinks with each word.
I try to absorb it all, the reality of it crashing over me like a wave.
“I didn’t realize,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The counselor nods, their expression understanding yet firm.
“It’s not too late,” they assure me.
