That was when the previous three weeks began lining themselves up in my head.
Emma had fallen asleep during dinner.
She had complained that her legs felt funny.
She had sat in front of her cereal one morning with a distant expression while I called her name twice before she responded.
Each incident had seemed explainable by itself.
Preschool could wear her out.
Children went through growth spurts.
Children slept badly.
Parents misread things.
I had supplied an innocent explanation every time because I had no reason to imagine an adult in my home might secretly be giving my child prescription medication.
Now those small moments no longer felt separate.
I wanted to run down the hallway and confront Diane immediately.
The urge was physical.
But Emma was watching me.
