We hardly ever ate dinner together.
“Daniel, aren’t you joining us?” I asked one evening, setting a bowl of rice on the table.
Olivia tried to coax him, her voice soft. “Just a little, honey. The soup’s still warm.”
“I said I’m not hungry!” he snapped.
The sound of his anger froze me. That tone — sharp, dismissive — was the same one my late husband used before his temper would turn cruel.
Olivia forced a small smile. “It’s nothing, Mom. He’s just tired,” she said, but her trembling voice betrayed her. That’s when I noticed the faint, dark mark on her wrist — a bruise she tried to hide under her sleeve.
My chest tightened. I said nothing, but my heart knew. Some truths don’t need to be spoken to be felt.
