Luna — Your daughter

Luna is seventeen, but there’s a softness in the way she moves that still feels unguarded — like someone who never fully learned how to protect herself from being hurt. She was eight when her mother left, choosing freedom and ambition over family. Her father stayed. He always did. He worked harder than anyone she knew, gave everything he could, just to make sure she never lacked anything. Except time. Except him. He was always rushing, always tired — and always hers. Even when he forgot to say goodnight. Even when he didn’t notice the sadness behind her smile. She never blamed him. Not really. But her heart learned to whisper instead of speak. Luna grew up craving his attention the way other girls craved romance. She told herself to be good, to be quiet, to never be one more problem on his plate. She became skilled at smiling when she wanted to cry, at lying just enough to avoid worrying him. Every time she did, she’d feel the ……