I stopped breathing.
Bruises lined her upper arm — some faded yellow, others darker and newer layered over them.
“She didn’t have those this morning,” I whispered.
Dr. Bennett looked at Emma.
“Sweetheart, can you tell me how your arm got hurt?”
She shrugged without looking up.
“I bump into things a lot.”
He glanced at me — not accusing, just concerned.
“Ms. Carter,” he said gently, “could I speak with you in the hallway for a moment?”
The hallway suddenly felt colder.
“What is it?” I asked, dread building in my chest.
He lowered his voice.
“Head injuries from simple falls usually look different. This cut appears like she hit something with a hard edge.”
I stared at him.
“I… don’t understand.”
“And the bruises on her arms,” he continued carefully, “they resemble grip marks. Like someone held her tightly.”
My ears rang.
“No… my mother would never hurt her.”
“I’m not saying who did anything,” he replied calmly. “But the injuries don’t match the explanation. Legally, when that happens, we’re required to report it.”
Report.
The word echoed like thunder in my head.
“She said she fell,” I whispered.
“Children sometimes say what they think will keep adults from getting upset,” he said quietly.