It doesn’t start with a crisis.
It starts with a pause.
The kind that lingers too long in a room that used to hum with movement.
Zara is eighteen now.
Legally adult.
Still living at home.
Still enrolled at RISD.
Still fiercely independent.
But something has changed.
It’s subtle.
She comes home less.
Calls more than she texts.
Leaves clothes in piles she never used to ignore.
Her art is different too.
Less about structure.
Less about steadiness.
More about motion.
Bodies mid-stride.
Doors ajar.
Suitcases half-zipped.
I don’t say anything at first.
I don’t want to project.
I don’t want to panic.
We worked too hard to leave panic behind.
But I recognize the pattern.
I lived it.
Leaving.
Not running.
But leaving.
The conversation happens on a Wednesday.
She walks
