It sounded like ordinary parenting advice.
By the fourth week, Audrey stopped showing us her steps.
Her shoes stayed zipped in her bag. She ate upstairs. I assumed she was exhausted.
“How was class?”
“Fine.”
“What did you learn?”
“Stuff.”
Her shoes stayed zipped in her bag. She ate upstairs. I assumed she was exhausted.
When the studio emailed about spring recital auditions, I asked Audrey what she’d chosen.
She once practiced through a sprained wrist until I stopped her.
Her fork stopped.
“I’m not auditioning.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not ready.”
She once practiced through a sprained wrist until I stopped her.
“Did your teacher say something?” I asked.
Over the next two weeks, things worsened.
“Maybe I don’t feel like giving a report every night,” she snapped, taking her plate upstairs.
Scott found me washing dishes later.
“Teenagers get moody,” he said.
