Something closes.

Not with anger. Just quietly, the way a door settles into its frame.

You turn back to the counter.

Let them find their own pace. You’ve said what you can say.

You finish the lunch without speaking.

The sounds in the kitchen are just sounds now — the zip of a bag, the scrape of a chair.

Your child eventually appears, dressed, backpack on.

You don’t quite track when it happened.

The walk to the door is quiet.

You hand them their bag. You check that they have everything, methodically, without much feeling attached to the checking.

You make it on time.

The morning is done.

You’re not sure where you went during it.