I glance up as she barges in the door, bags of gifts in hand. She is quiet as she lays her load down to pull off her boots and shed her coat. She was gone most of the evening, and returned alone with less than her usual truckload of presents that she usually loves to splurge on at this time of year. I've got the TV on and though it isn't one of my shows, she still putters about in silence.
"Hey, get it all done?" I ask.
"Nope," she replies.
"Oh. Where is he tonight?"
She shrugs.
"At home."
"Mm."
She gathers up all that she'd strewn about and leaves to head up to her room. I don't bother to ask what's wrong because I know she'll tell me nothing. But that's okay; I know she'll be fine. I know my own daughter.
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