I Hid Under My Daughter’s Bed and Learned the Truth No Parent Is Ready to Hear

French toast.

Extra cinnamon.

She came downstairs in her oversized hoodie and leggings, earbuds already in, phone in her hand.

“Morning,” I said lightly. “Hungry?”

She blinked, surprised.

“For… me?”

I smiled. “No, for the dog,” I said. “Yes, for you. Sit.”

She rolled her eyes but obeyed.

I watched her eat, watched the way her eyes slid past mine, the way her shoulders tensed when my neighbor’s car door slammed outside.

“You’re quiet,” I said.