As we reached the exit, Dr. Harris touched my arm briefly.
Just enough to slip something into the pocket of my coat.
Then he said, louder:
“She should be fine physically. But monitor her closely.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
Monitor her.
Not the tooth.
Her.
The drive home felt wrong.
Daniel kept talking.
Too much.
“She embarrassed herself in there.”
“That dentist was overreacting.”
“Some doctors love drama.”
I barely heard him.
Because I could feel the folded paper burning inside my pocket.
The second we got home, I told Daniel I needed to put Lily down for a nap.
He went downstairs to answer a phone call.
I locked myself in the bathroom.
Then I unfolded the note.
Three lines.
That was all.
But those three lines destroyed my entire world.
“Check the X-rays again.
There are signs of repeated forced oral trauma.
If you and your daughter are unsafe, go directly to the police.”
My hands started shaking so violently I almost dropped the paper.
No.
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