The Subtle Signs
Over the next few days, the complaints continued. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to be noticed—if you were paying attention.
Leila started eating less. She moved more slowly, like every step required a little more effort than before. One morning, I found her sitting on the edge of her bed, her face pale, her hand gripping the mattress as if she were trying to steady the room.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just dizzy. I stood up too fast.”
It was always something small. Something explainable.
But the dizziness kept happening.
The pain didn’t go away.
And the girl who used to laugh easily now spent more time lying down, staring at the ceiling, as if waiting for something to pass.
“She’s Just Overreacting”
I brought it up again at dinner.
“I think we should take her to a doctor,” I said carefully.
Her father sighed, the kind of sigh that carries dismissal more than concern. “For what? A stomach ache? Kids exaggerate, you know that.”
“She’s not exaggerating,” I insisted. “She doesn’t complain like this.”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s stress. School, friends… hormones. It’s normal.”
Normal.
That word echoed in my mind long after the conversation ended.
Because nothing about this felt normal.
A Mother’s Unease
There’s a particular kind of fear that lives inside a mother—the kind that doesn’t come from evidence, but from instinct. It’s quiet, persistent, and impossible to ignore once it takes hold.
That fear had settled in my chest.
I began watching Leila more closely.
