If you’d asked me a year ago, I would’ve told you Nina and I were close.

She’s 25 now. Moved out at 18. Independent, driven. I was proud. We stayed in touch—Sunday dinners, birthdays, movie nights.

Then the visits stopped.

First, it was Richard’s birthday. She called the day before: “Work’s crazy, Mom. I can’t make it.”

Understandable. Life happens.

Then she missed my birthday. Called the next day, saying she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to risk getting me sick. Her voice sounded distant, off somehow—like she was trying to sound okay, but wasn’t.

By Thanksgiving, the excuses stacked up. I started asking directly.

“Is everything alright?” I asked.

“Yeah, just busy,” she’d insist.

But I knew something was wrong. Her tone wasn’t the same. She was pulling away.

“She’s growing up,” Richard said. “Let her.”

But it didn’t feel like growth. It felt like loss. Something was broken.

Then, last week, I saw her—by chance, in the grocery store. She looked good. Healthy. Not like someone struggling. Just someone avoiding me.

She spotted me and gave a nervous smile. “Hi, Mom.”

“I’ve been calling…” I began.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I’ve been meaning to—”

“Not here,” I said quietly.

Outside, I gently pressed her. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

She hesitated. “It’s not you, Mom.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Richard,” she said, barely audible.

She told me about a visit last year—one I barely remembered—when I stepped out briefly.

Richard had found her diary and read it out loud, mocking her. Laughing. Calling her dramatic.

Making light of her miscarriage. Her pain.