It was written down.
There was a time.
There was a bottle.
There was a child sitting on the exam table.
There was a doctor who had seen the label himself.
Part of me wanted to call my husband immediately.
Another part wanted to drive straight home, take Diane’s suitcase, and put it in the driveway.
I could imagine myself demanding answers.
I could imagine asking how anyone could look at a four-year-old child and decide that secrecy and adult medication belonged in the same sentence.
But none of those impulses mattered more than Emma.
She was still sitting in pink socks, surrounded by adults who were suddenly speaking more carefully than they had when she first entered the room.
She watched us all.
The more serious we became, the more closely she watched.
