When I picked up the girls one day this past week, something was going on with Sylvia. She didn't want to talk about it. She lied down on her bed with her iPod and her cell phone. Of course, I asked her what was up, but she didn't want to talk about it.
And I let it go.
She's 13 now. She's not going to tell me everything. I know enough to know that there are things she's keeping from me.
When it was time for dinner, she came out of her room and we had a normal evening. She wasn't sullen (nor particularly giddy), she seemed just fine. The rest of the week, she was mostly her usual self.
I could have tried to bring it up again, but I decided to see if she'd say anything to me. She didn't. I didn't push because I'm afraid that if I push too hard, I'll push her away. I want to know, of course. I might be able to help. But maybe that's why she's not talking to me. Maybe she wanted to figure it out for herself. Or maybe she already has.
It may come up sometime. She may tell me next week, or she may never tell me. Or maybe it wasn't even something. Maybe it was just a desire to be alone, to listen to a certain song.
I know it sounds like I'm driving myself crazy worrying about it, but I'm really not. All of this stuff went through my head pretty quickly in the half hour it occurred.
It was just the first thing I thought of when I read The Daily Post's topic: Can you handle the truth? I'm sure I could handle whatever it was she would've said, had she said something. I think it's generally harder not to know. In the end, I think I did the right thing in just giving her space.