By lunchtime, I had convinced myself that I was worrying too much.
That was not unusual for me.
I could spend an entire morning concerned about something, then find a way to explain it away before the day was over.
It was easier than making a decision that might upset Daniel.
I didn't like admitting that, even to myself.
But I had spent years learning how to recognize the beginning of one of his moods. I knew which questions to postpone, which subjects to avoid, and when a simple disagreement was likely to become a long lecture about respect.
I had become good at keeping things calm.
I had not become good at knowing when calm was the wrong goal.
That afternoon, Grace came downstairs while I was sorting laundry.
She was still wearing the gray sweatshirt.
I had placed a basket of clean clothes on the sofa, and she stopped beside it with one hand resting against her stomach.
I looked up.
"How are you feeling now?"
"Better."
She said it quickly.
Too quickly.
I set down the shirt I was folding.
"Really?"
She nodded.
I watched her face, waiting for the little smile that usually followed when she wanted me to stop asking questions.
It never came.
"Do you want something to eat?"
"No, thank you."
Her voice was polite in a way that made me feel farther away from her than I had a moment before.
I stood and walked toward the kitchen.
"You need to eat something, sweetheart. It doesn't have to be much."
She followed me slowly.
I opened the refrigerator and looked inside, though I had no idea what I expected to find.
There were leftovers from the night before, a container of cut fruit, and a bowl of soup I had made two days earlier.
I took out the soup.
"How about this?"
Grace stared at the container.
Then she shook her head.
"Please don't make me."
I stopped.
The words were quiet, but they changed the whole room.
I put the container back.
"All right."
She looked relieved.
That relief bothered me.
Not because she had refused the soup, but because she had seemed to expect that I would force her to eat it.
I pulled out a chair.
"Sit with me for a minute."
She sat.
I took the chair across from her and rested my hands on the table.
"Grace, I need you to tell me the truth about how you're feeling."
"I am."
"Does your stomach still hurt?"
She nodded.
"Is it worse than yesterday?"
Another nod.
I swallowed.
"Why didn't you tell me that this morning?"
She rubbed her thumb along the edge of the table.
"I didn't want to make things difficult."
I had heard adults say things like that.
I had said them myself.
I had never expected to hear them from my daughter.
"You're not making things difficult by telling me you're hurting."
She looked at me, then toward the hallway.
"Dad doesn't think there's anything wrong."
I felt the familiar urge to defend him.
He had been under pressure lately, I could say. He had a lot on his mind. He was strict because he wanted Grace to be responsible.
I had used every one of those explanations before.
None of them answered the question in front of me.
"What matters is how you're feeling," I told her.
She didn't seem convinced.
I reached across the table, but she had already folded her hands in her lap.
That small movement made me stop.
I had always thought Grace would tell me if she needed help.
Now I wondered how many times she had tried and decided that it was safer not to.
I asked her whether she wanted to stay home from school the next day if she still felt unwell.
She shook her head.
"I don't want Dad to think I'm doing it on purpose."
I leaned back.
There it was again.
Everything came back to what Daniel might think.
I wanted to tell her that his opinion didn't matter.
But it did matter in our house.
It mattered because he made sure we knew when he disapproved, and because the rest of us had grown accustomed to arranging our lives around that disapproval.
I couldn't blame Grace for noticing the same things I had noticed.
I could only blame myself for pretending she shouldn't.
That evening, Daniel returned home later than usual.
I was preparing dinner when I heard his keys land in the bowl near the entrance.
He walked into the kitchen, checked the counter, and glanced at the food.
"What are we having?"
"Chicken and rice."
He nodded.
Then he looked toward the stairs.
"Where's Grace?"
"Upstairs."
"Still avoiding dinner?"
I turned from the stove.
"She hasn't been feeling well."
Daniel took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair.
"She's been saying that for days."
"That's why I'm concerned."
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he smiled without warmth.
"Rebecca, children learn very quickly which complaints get attention."
I felt my face grow hot.
"She's not asking for anything."
"She doesn't have to ask. You've been watching her all day."
I looked at the wooden spoon in my hand.
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to tell him that I was her mother and that I had every right to pay attention when something seemed wrong.
Instead, I asked the question I should have asked much earlier.
"What if she's actually sick?"
Daniel opened a drawer and searched for a fork.
"Then we'll know."
"How?"
He found what he wanted and closed the drawer.
"By using common sense."
I waited.
He didn't explain.
He didn't need to. He had already made his position clear, and he expected me to accept it.
I returned to the stove.
A few minutes later, Grace appeared at the kitchen entrance.
She looked at the food, then at her father.
Daniel pulled out a chair.
"Come and sit down."
She did.
I placed a small portion of rice on her plate.
Grace stared at it.
"Try a few bites," I said gently.
She picked up her fork.
For several seconds, she moved the food around without eating.
Then she took one small bite.
Her face tightened.
She put the fork down and pressed her palm against her abdomen.
I was beside her before I had even decided to move.
"Does it hurt?"
She nodded.
Daniel sighed.
"Grace."
She flinched at the sound of her name.
It was slight.
Someone else might not have noticed.
I did.
"Don't," I said.
Daniel turned toward me.
"Don't what?"
"She's hurting."
"And I am asking her to eat dinner."
Grace sat perfectly still between us.
I could see the muscles in her jaw tightening as she tried not to cry.
I took her plate away.
"That's enough for now."
Daniel pushed his chair back.
"You are making this worse."
I didn't answer.
He stood, took his glass from the table, and walked out of the kitchen.
I heard the television come on in the living room.
Grace's shoulders slowly relaxed.
That was when I understood something I had been avoiding.
She wasn't only afraid of the pain.
She was afraid of what happened when she admitted it.
I sat beside her.
"You don't have to finish your dinner."
She wiped her eyes with the end of her sleeve.
"I'm sorry."
The apology nearly broke me.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
She looked at me as if she wanted to believe that.
I helped her upstairs and tucked the blanket around her legs. Before I left, I asked whether the pain was in one place or moving around.
She pointed to the same area she had pointed to that morning.
I asked whether she felt sick when she tried to eat.
She nodded.
I stood beside the bed, trying to remember every detail.
I had no medical knowledge that could tell me what was wrong. I could only see that my daughter was becoming quieter, that meals had turned into something she dreaded, and that the ordinary things she used to do were becoming harder.
I went back downstairs and found Daniel in the living room.
He was sitting with his tablet balanced on one knee.
"We need to get Grace checked by a doctor."
He didn't look up.
"For what?"
"Her stomach. She's been in pain for days, and she can't eat properly."
Daniel tapped something on the screen.
"She's eating less because you're encouraging her to think about it."
I stared at him.
"How does that make sense?"
He finally looked at me.
"Every time she complains, you stop what you're doing. You ask questions. You hover over her. What do you think she's going to learn?"
I had no answer ready.
Not because he was right.
Because I had spent so long trying to avoid these conversations that I had forgotten how to respond when he made an accusation.
He returned his attention to the tablet.
"Let her get back to her normal routine."
I stood there for another moment.
Then I walked away.
In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes.
I was frightened.
I was also angry, though it took me longer to admit that part.
I had allowed Daniel's certainty to become more important than my own observations. I had treated his opinion as if it were evidence.
It wasn't.
My daughter was hurting, and I didn't know why.
That should have been enough.
I took my phone from the counter and opened the contact list.
I found the number for the hospital we had used before.
My thumb hovered above the screen.
I could hear Daniel moving around in the next room.
For a moment, I considered waiting until morning.
Then I pictured Grace at the dinner table, apologizing for being in pain.
I pressed the call button.
PART 2 END
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Finally Decided to Take Grace Seriously, but I Had No Idea How Much I Still Didn’t Know About Her Care
I Thought My Daughter Was Refusing Breakfast Until I Noticed What She Was Trying So Hard Not to Say
Part 2 of 20
