“How was class?”
“Fine.”
“What did you learn?”
“Stuff.”
Her shoes stayed zipped in her bag. She ate upstairs. I assumed she was exhausted.
When the studio emailed about spring recital auditions, I asked Audrey what she’d chosen.
She once practiced through a sprained wrist until I stopped her.
Her fork stopped.
“I’m not auditioning.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not ready.”
She once practiced through a sprained wrist until I stopped her.
“Did your teacher say something?” I asked.
Over the next two weeks, things worsened.
“Maybe I don’t feel like giving a report every night,” she snapped, taking her plate upstairs.
Scott found me washing dishes later.
“Teenagers get moody,” he said.
“Audrey’s never acted like this.”
“She’s growing up.”
The following Thursday, Derek pulled into our driveway while I was taking the trash outside.
I wanted to believe him.
Over the next two weeks, things worsened. When I offered new ballet shoes, she snapped, “Can you stop trying to fix everything?” I apologized, bewildered.
