But during those three weeks of silence, Maya became a ghost in our house. She barely touched her dinner, which was totally unlike her. She used to eat three slices of pizza after a hard practice. Now, she just pushed her food around her plate.

Whenever Dave or I asked her about school or her friends, she would give us one-word answers. Her eyes looked heavy, like she wasn’t sleeping. I started to worry she was getting depressed, or maybe someone was bullying her at school.

Then, on a rainy Thursday evening, my phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Sheryl, the mother of Maya’s best friend on the team, Chloe. Sheryl sounded nervous, her voice hushed as if she were hiding in a closet to make the call.

“Karen, has Maya said anything to you about why she quit?” Sheryl whispered. My stomach did a strange, tight squeeze. I told her no, that Maya had just shut down completely. I could hear Sheryl let out a shaky breath on the other end.

“Chloe quit today too,” Sheryl said. “She came home from school, threw her gear in the garage, and won’t stop crying. Something happened at that practice three weeks ago. Chloe won’t talk, but she’s absolutely terrified of something. I can feel it.”

That was the exact moment I realized this wasn’t a pre-teen phase. Something was very wrong, and the ignorance of the last three weeks suddenly felt like a heavy weight pressing down on my neck. I hung up the phone and walked straight down the hallway.

I opened Maya’s bedroom door without knocking. She was sitting on her bed, staring blankly at her phone, her knees pulled up to her chest.

The room smelled like clean laundry and vanilla body spray. It looked so normal, but she looked exhausted and thin.

“We need to talk, Maya,” I said, closing the door behind me. I sat down on the edge of her mattress. “I just got off the phone with Chloe’s mom. Chloe quit today too. I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what happened.”

Maya didn’t move. She just stared at the wall, her jaw locking so tightly I could see the muscles in her cheek twitch. I reached out and touched her arm. Her skin was freezing cold, and she was trembling.

“Please, baby,” I whispered. “Whatever it is, we can fix it. You don’t have to carry this alone.” She let out a small, ragged sound, and then the dam broke. She put her face in her hands and began to cry, her shoulders shaking violently.

I held her for forty minutes. She cried so hard she was gasping for air, her tears soaking through the shoulder of my flannel shirt. I didn’t say anything. I just rocked her, my own stomach twisting into a cold, hard knot.