After the argument, Daniel shut down. Not dramatically — not with slamming doors or harsh words. He simply became quiet in the way that certain people do when they've been hurt past the point of immediate processing. He answered questions with single syllables. He made coffee, went to work, came home. He was present in every physical sense and entirely absent in every other. His partner, Ana, had learned not to push during these periods. She had made the mistake of pushing early in their relationship and discovered that it only drove him deeper inside himself. So she waited. She cooked. She left a book she knew he'd like on his desk. On the second morning, he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen with an expression that was part apology and part exhaustion. "I do that," he said, without further explanation. "I know," she said. "Coffee?"

When her daughter told her she was leaving the law firm to become a ceramicist, Clara shut down. She didn't argue. She didn't shout. She simply went somewhere inside herself that looked, from the outside, like calm acceptance but was actually the total suspension of response. Her daughter recognised it immediately. "You're not okay with this," she said. "I'm processing," Clara said. It took four months. During that time, she watched her daughter work with clay on weekends. She saw the concentration on her face. The satisfaction when something came out right. She watched her daughter become more herself than she had ever seemed in a courtroom. And slowly, Clara came around. "You were right," she said one Sunday, holding a mug her daughter had made. "I see it now."