Emma sat pressed against my side in the waiting chair, unusually quiet. She kept rubbing the sleeve of her sweater between her fingers the way she used to when she was three and overwhelmed.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head carefully. “They’re just going to make sure you’re alright.”
She nodded, but her body remained stiff.
When we were finally taken into the exam room, a nurse gently began cleaning the wound. As the dried blood softened and wiped away, the cut looked worse — deeper than I had realized.
“Oh sweetheart,” the nurse murmured softly. “That must have hurt.”
Emma said nothing.
A few minutes later Dr. Bennett walked in. He had kind eyes but a serious expression — the kind you don’t notice right away because you’re too busy hoping everything is fine.
“Well hello there, Emma,” he said warmly. “Sounds like you had quite a day.”
She nodded faintly.
He examined her head carefully, his fingers gentle as he checked the injury. His expression changed slightly.
“This will need stitches,” he said. “It’s deeper than it looks.”
My stomach tightened.
“From a fall?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently lifted Emma’s arm and rolled up her sleeve.