“I don’t feel good,” she called weakly through the door.
“Then let me in.”
“No. Please just leave me alone.”
I stood outside her room listening to her cry quietly on the other side of the door, and every instinct inside me screamed that something was terribly wrong.
By Tuesday, she still hadn’t gone to school.
She ignored calls from friends. She barely ate. I’d leave food outside her door, and hours later the plate would quietly disappear.
At one point, thinking I’d walked away, she whispered through the door, “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
My heart nearly stopped.
“See what?” I asked immediately.
Silence.
No answer.
That was when I called Gloria.
She sounded strangely impatient the moment she answered.
“She’s probably just being dramatic,” Gloria said dismissively after I explained what was happening. “Girls that age overreact to everything.”
“She’s locked herself in her room for two days,” I snapped. “Did something happen this weekend?”
“No,” Gloria answered too quickly.
I narrowed my eyes at the wall as if I could somehow see through the phone line. “Gloria…”
“I’m not doing this with you,” she interrupted sharply before hanging up.
I stared at my phone, feeling cold all over.
If nothing had happened, why was she acting like that?
By the third morning, I’d had enough.
I pounded on Letty’s bedroom door hard enough to shake the frame.
“Open the door. Now.”
“NO!” she cried from inside. “Please, Mom!”
But I was done waiting.
I grabbed the spare key from the hallway drawer and unlocked the door.
The room was dark except for a tiny sliver of light near the curtains.
“Go away!” she sobbed.
I flipped on the light.
And froze.
My daughter sat on the floor wrapped tightly in a blanket, as if she wanted to disappear inside it.
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