I crouched so I was eye level with Emma.
“Sweetheart, show me the bottle.”
Her lip trembled.
“Am I in trouble?”
That question hurt in a different way.
Whatever had been happening, my daughter had already learned to connect telling me about it with the possibility that she might be blamed.
I told her no.
I told her she was never in trouble for telling me about something that scared her.
Emma disappeared down the hallway.
When she returned, she carried an orange prescription bottle in both hands.
The clock read 5:36 p.m.
The label did not have Emma’s name on it.
It said Diane Patterson.
The instructions were for an adult dose.
I did not recognize the medication name. I only knew it was a prescription and that my four-year-old daughter had just told me her grandmother gave her one pill every night.
The bottle rattled because my hands were shaking.
I asked Emma how many Grandma had been giving her.
“One every night before bed,” she said.
Then she added that Grandma had told her it was their secret.
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.
She was studying my face the way children do when they are trying to decide whether the truth has created danger.
So I did not give her a scene.
I put the cap back on the bottle.
“Get your shoes,” I said. “We’re going to see Dr. Stevens.”
