For the first six weeks of first grade, my daughter Lily came home glowing. At six years old she was bright, confident, imaginative — the kind of child who told whole stories before she even finished stepping out of the car. She shared everything: which classmate spilled glitter everywhere, who got to feed the class hamster, how her teacher said she had “the neatest handwriting in the universe.”
Those afternoons filled the house with joy.
Then, suddenly, things changed.
At first it was small. She walked slower after school. She said she was tired. She stopped showing me her drawings. Kids have off days, so I didn’t assume anything serious. But soon she began waking up looking worried, staring at her socks like she didn’t want to put them on.
One morning, I found her fully dressed, sitting quietly at the edge of her bed, whispering, “I don’t want to go.”
Something inside me tightened. A child that young shouldn’t sound so defeated. But when I asked what was wrong, she shut down.
Every afternoon she climbed into the car quieter than the day before. Her backpack stayed zipped. Her cheerful chatter vanished. Her spark dimmed, little by little.
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