During a family dinner, my daughter quietly passed me a note: “Mom, immediately pretend that you are ill and leave here.” At first, I thought my daughter was joking, but a few minutes later something happened that horrified me.

Then I felt it.

A light touch.

Her fingers brushing against mine under the table.

At first, I didn’t react.

But then she pressed something into my palm.

Small. Soft. Folded.

My heart skipped.

I kept my face still, forcing myself to continue nodding along with whatever conversation was happening. Slowly, carefully, I opened my hand beneath the table.

It was a napkin.

Folded into a tight square.