I came home early that afternoon, expecting a quiet house. But the moment I stepped inside, I heard something that stopped me in my tracks. My daughter’s voice—soft, shaking—carried from the kitchen.
“I can’t tell Mom the truth,” she whispered. “She’ll never forgive me.”
My heart ached. I didn’t know who she was talking to, only that she was deeply afraid.
“I don’t know what to do,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
The floor creaked as I stepped forward. She turned suddenly, her face pale with surprise. She ended the call and tucked her phone away.
“Mom! You’re home early!” she said, forcing a smile.
“Slow day at work,” I replied, trying to sound calm. “Who were you talking to?”
“Just a friend,” she answered, avoiding my eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured a glass of water.
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