Isabella comes home at four o'clock on a Thursday and I know immediately that something is wrong.She's eleven. She's usually home by four fifteen, usually talking about something that happened at school or something she wants to do. But today she's early and she's quiet and her eyes are red in a way that means she's been crying on the subway or in the bathroom at school or somewhere private where nobody had to watch her fall apart."Hey," I say from the kitchen where I'm making a snack for when Alexander gets home. "You okay?"She doesn't answer. She just comes over and sits in my lap, which she hasn't done in probably a year. At eleven, she's usually too big for laps. Too grown. Too aware that sitting in your mother's lap is something smaller children do. But today she just sits and lets me hold her and doesn't say anything.I don't ask questions. I just hold her. That's what I've learned to do when someone needs to cry. Just be there. Just let them know they're not alone in whateve
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