Daisy
I noticed it in the small things first.
The way he paused sometimes in the middle of sentences like he had lost the thread of something. The way he reached for his temple when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way he smiled just a half second too quickly whenever I asked if he was okay, like the smile was something he kept ready and waiting specifically for that question.
I knew that smile. I had worn it myself for three years.
Something was wrong.
I tried to ask him directly twice. Both times he looked at me with that warm, steady expression and said he was fine and changed the subject so smoothly that I almost believed him. Almost. But I knew Norman. I knew the difference between fine and performing fine, and what I was watching every day was a performance.
The knowing sat in
