Jake came over every other weekend like clockwork, but he barely interacted with us. He’d sit on the couch, eat whatever was served, retreat to the spare room, and stay buried in his phone or books. No misbehavior, no disrespect—just a quiet distance that always made the house feel colder somehow.
My daughter, Lily, was 14 then. Normally warm and open, she began acting odd around Jake. One Saturday night, after he’d gone to bed, Lily came into the kitchen while I was rinsing off plates and said, “Mom, I don’t like when Jake’s here.”
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