my mother said. I looked up from my plate to her blank stare, always wondering how she could sense such things. It must have been motherly instinct. “I’m just not very hungry,” I admitted, pushing the chicken around on my plate, my head and heart heavy as if someone had opened my mouth and poured sand inside me. She slowly placed her fork down and sighed. “You haven’t been yourself for the last few weeks. Is there something you need to talk about? Is it work?” I glanced at my father. He was eating away, apparently content. I knew he wasn’t really here right now—when my father was one hundred per cent himself, he was very intuitive and a straight shooter. I could rarely keep things from him either. “It’s not work,” I said slowly, knowing that I was going to have tell them. I just didn’t know how. They wouldn’t see it the way I saw it. I wondered how much I could hide from them.
