Was there ever a day where everything was sad but everything was going by so fast that your emotions couldn’t catch up? 2nd grade was one of the hardest years of my life.

In my classroom, I remember my teacher answering the phone. She hung up and looked at me. Her face had a serious, yet compassionate look; as if she could feel my emotions inside of me and was already trying to comfort them. Then she said, “ Go ahead and head to the office, your parents are picking you up early today.”

I leave the classroom with an odd feeling. I know something's wrong; I just don't know what. I walk down the long hall. The quiet seems sinister. I'm not used to being in the hall while the other kids are in their classes. I approach my locker, entering the four digit combo. I grab my backpack from inside. closing it with a gentle creak, so as not to disturb the silence. I continue down the expansive hallway, heading toward the office. Each step my feet make echos with a mounting intensity. The odd feeling begins to morph into fear. Something is definitely wrong now. My pace gets quicker. The office door is just ahead. I'm nearly there. Ten steps away. I grab the handle, slipping inside. The door closes behind me with a soft thud.
The principal sits behind a desk. "Ah Hanna, there you are. Your parents should be here shortly," He says.
"Principal Abercrombie, Am I in trouble?"
The principal's face softens, "No. Not at all."
"Then could you tell me why I'm here?"
"Well–" he shifts his gaze away from me. "it's best I let your parents explain it to you."
"Ok…" An uneasy feeling settles over me once again. I wait with bated breath, for what seems like an eternity.

The office door opens. Mom and dad are standing in the doorway, their faces ashen. Now I know something is wrong. "What is it?" I inquire.
Mom gives me an uneasy look, she tries to hide it with a smile, but I know—I can always tell when something's off. Dad gives principal Abercrombie a brief greeting before turning to me. "Ready to go kiddo?" His face is the same as Mom's, although he does a better job of hiding it—I can't always tell what he's feeling.
"Ok," I agree. The three of us walk out to the parking lot. I can feel it radiating off of them, like a sickening stench. When we get to the car, I get in the back seat like always. Mom and Dad also get into the back, on either side of me—weird. The air feels heavy.
"Honey," Mom utters in a fragile voice. "There's no easy way to tell you this…" Long silence. Deafening. "Your grandfather has just passed away."
My world spins. The air is noxious. I can't breathe. I choke, tears streaming down my face. I try to scream, sound won't come out. I lean over and burry myself into mom. Dad is always a comforting presence, but right now I need mommy. I can't breath. Only tears, only pain. I now know what the feeling from earlier was, Grandfather's receding warmth. In my mind I see his smile, hear his laughter, feel his grace—I'll never know them again. I'm not sure how long Mom and I stay in the backseat, clutching each other for. I become vaguely aware of the vehicle moving. Dad must have gotten into the driver's seat. The drive home never felt so long.

When we get back home, Mom and I get out of the back seat. I grab my backpack before heading to the front door. I input the four digit code, heading inside. I don't even stop to greet Reta—our dog. I just head straight upstairs to my room. My room is the coolest one in the house by far. I've loved the ocean since our trip to the Bahamas a couple years ago. Since then, Dad remodeled my room with a nautical theme—the windows have a hue to them, bathing the room in blue lighting; my bed frame is shaped like a boat, and there's a big treasure map painted on the wall. He even built me a fort shaped like a sailboat—it takes up nearly a quarter of the room! Today however, when I walk into my room I don't even notice all the cool things Dad built. I flop down on the bed, in a glum state of despair. I don't even kick my shoes off. A few minutes later there's a soft knocking on my door.
"Can I come in? Mom inquires.
I don't even bother trying to respond. I know the words won't come anyway. Instead I just wait until I hear the door unlatch. Mom peaks her head inside.
"Are you ok?
Her tone makes me wonder if she's ok. Her eyes are red from crying.
"Not talking huh? That's ok." She unties my shoes, taking one off, then the other.
She lays down on the bed beside me, cradling me in her arms. I can sense her grief radiating off of her in waves. She set her pain aside to comfort me, and all I can do is lay here silently. I'm so selfish. The tears come again, accompanied by that hollowness in my chest. I sob as the pain leaves me, quickly replenished by more. Mom holds me tighter. I'm grateful for her. She's always been there for me when I need her. Dad enters the room with two mugs of hot chocolate, and a plate of sandwiches. He sets them down on the bedside table, leaning over to give me a kiss on the forehead. His face is distraught as he strokes my hair.
"I know, Honey," He soothes.
I'm grateful for him too. Mom and Dad share a grave glance with each other. Dad exits, leaving Mom and I alone again. We lay there for hours. I start sobbing every now and then; Mom holds me tighter, rocking me back and forth. The sandwiches lay on the nightstand—untouched. We stay together in my bed that night. Mom must be really worried about me; she doesn't even make me get up to brush my teeth. I lay in bed for a long time, listening to Mom's quiet breathing.

I wake with a feeling of dread creeping through me. My sleep was very unrestful. Mom lay beside me, still sleeping. I stay still in the warm cocoon of the blankets. I don't feel like crying anymore; in fact, I don't feel anything—just this hollow emptiness filling me up. I lay there, thoughts swirling, contemplating the meaninglessness of everything. Mom starts to wake up. The first thing she does is look at me. Upon seeing me awake, she says,
"How are you feeling?
Since last night, I have realized the pointlessness of everything—why even bother trying to speak? I just stare at her.
"Still not talking, huh?
"I'll call the principal to tell him you're going to need a few days. Just stay here and get plenty of rest. I'll bring some breakfast up in a bit." She gets up, heading for the door.

The days start to bleed into each other. Mom and dad come in and out of the room on a regular basis—like it's a schedule. Mom works from home, but dad must be taking time off. Almost every time they come in they talk to me. Sometimes they ask me questions as if they're hoping for a response. At first it was just casual, but as time goes on it's almost like they're pleading with me; their faces become sullen—almost desperate—when I don't return their words.

One night I hear them arguing downstairs. The curiosity overrides my inertia. I slide my legs out of bed, standing on wobbly feet—how long has it been? I creep out of my room, coming to a stop at the top of the stairs. I can hear them clearly now.
"We can't just let this continue! It's been a week. It's not good for her." Mom says, trying to keep her voice down.
It's been a week…
"It's not for us to decide how she deals with this, ok?" Dad retorts.
"I'm afraid she's not dealing with it at all!"
"Maybe she just needs more time. We can give her that, right?"
"How long do you prepose we let her rot up there before we try something different? SHE NEEDS HELP. Professional help."
"I just don't want to go down that road yet, ok? And keep your voice down. She's going to hear you."
"Oh please, Charlie. Just because you're afraid of therapy doesn't mean it's a bad thing! Stop thinking about yourself and try to do what's best for her."
"I am thinking about her, Laura! It's better if she can deal with this on her own. I don't want her to face that kind of stigma at school."
"It's twenty twenty-six! It isn't like when we were kids. people are praised for going to therapy, it's a–good–thing! Besides, nobody's going to know unless you tell them!"
"I just don't want her to feel like there's something wrong with her because she can't process emotions like everybody else."
"No. I think you don't want to face the stigma of having a daughter who needs help. Which, by the way, is all in your head.
"This isn't helping. We'll talk in the morning when you're sober.
"Don't give me that 'when I'm sober' shit.
"Oh yeah, just walk away. I'm right and you know it."
All of this is because of me. Because I can't pull it together. My mind reels. This is all my fault. I'm a burden.

The next day, I wake up early. I drag myself out of bed with a new directive: damage control—I can't let this spiral any longer. I dress in my school clothes, grabbing my backpack, I leave my room to head downstairs. Mom and Dad sit at the kitchen counter, acting like they don't notice each other. I try to summon words, but my throat still feels wrong. I'll have to make do without. I pull out a stool to sit next to them. They both jump.
"Honey, you're out of bed! How are you feeling? Mom stammers, still startled.
I give her a big smile, hoping it'll hide the worry I feel. Dad looks visibly pleased—he isn't hiding it as well as normal. It's working! Keep going!
"I'll make you something to eat," Mom affirms.
Reta comes over to lay her head in my lap—she's a tall dog, so she can do that.
"You're wearing your school clothes, kiddo. Are you planning on going to school today?" Dad asks, still seeming pleased by my performance.
I nob my head vigorously. This isn't so bad, I just need to keep it up until I'm an adult, then I can move out. Dad seems even more pleased.
"Laura, she wants to go to school."
Mom turns to look at me, her face is etched with concern. My non-existent mood plummets, I'm not selling this as well as I thought. If I could only speak, then I could really convince them.
"Honey, I don't think it's a good idea for you to go back to school just ye—"
"Of course it is! If she wants to go to school, let her. Right Kiddo?" He winks at me.
They're still arguing. It's not working. I'm not enough. It's almost time for the bus, I can't back out now, I already committed to this. I eat the food Mom puts in front of me with haste. Once I finish, I go to put my shoes on. Mom kneels down, looking me directly In the eyes. Stay strong. don't let her know.
"Hanna, It's ok if you don't go to school today. Nobody would blame you."
"Just let her go. She wants to go. Stop trying to convince her otherwise."
Mom throws a venomous look over her shoulder. She puts her shoes on to walk me outside.
"I'm proud of you, Kiddo," Dad calls as we exit the house.
Mom scoffs as she slams the door. The bus is just pulling up to the curb. Mom kneels down again, eye level with me.
"You don't have to do this, it's ok to not be ok." She pleads with me. Her eye's silently searching, trying to dig into my facade.
I shake my head. I have to convince her. It's the only way. I hug Mom before heading toward the bus's open doors, leaving her looking grief stricken on the lawn.