"Why?"
"Because that's what kids do."
"But Emma's there." Her voice went small. "And I don’t like seeing her sad face."
The words were a knife. I knelt in front of her. "I know it's hard?—"
"She used to smile at me especially." Sarah's eyes filled again. "Now she barely smiles at all."
I didn't have words. I just held her while she cried into my shoulder, her small body shaking with sobs.
I bribed her with hot chocolate from the diner. Not my proudest parenting moment, but desperate times. The drive to school was silent, none of her usual chatter about dreams or what she hoped they'd do in art class.
"Have a good day, kiddo," I said as she climbed out.
She didn't respond. Just trudged toward the building with her shoulders hunched, looking like she was walking to her own execution.
That afternoon, her teacher caught me in the hallway. Ms. Lewis was young, earnest, and clearly concerned.
"Mr. Brennan, do you have a moment?"
"Sure. Is everything okay?"
"I wanted to touch base about Sarah." She glanced around, lowering her voice. "She's just not herself lately. Today, during art, she refused to participate. Just sat there with her arms crossed."
"Art is her favorite."
"I know. And there was an incident at lunch." Ms. Lewis hesitated. "Another little girl asked if she wanted to play during recess. Sarah said, and I'm quoting here, 'Why? You're just gonna leave anyway. Everyone leaves.'"
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I actually swayed.
"Mr. Brennan? Are you alright?"
"Fine. I'm fine." I wasn't fine. Not even close. "Is there... anything else?"
"She's been staring out the window a lot. Not disruptive, just... absent. Like she's somewhere else." Ms. Lewis's expression softened with sympathy. "I know it's not my place, but is everything okay at home? Sometimes kids pick up on stress?—"
"We're going through some changes," I said, the understatement of the century. "I'll talk to her."
"Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
In the truck, Sarah stared out the window without speaking.
"Ms. Lewis said you didn't want to do art today."
Silence.
"She also said you told a girl that everyone leaves."
More silence. Then, quietly: "It's true."
"Sarah—"
"Mommy left. Emma left. It's just true."
I pulled over to the side of the road. I couldn't have this conversation while driving. I turned to face her.
