Through the open doorway, I could see Emma sitting alone on the exam table, her small legs swinging slightly as she stared at the wall.
And for the first time in my life…
I realized I might not truly know my own family at all.
Part 3
Before Emma’s stitches were even finished, a hospital social worker arrived.
Her name was Claire, and she spoke gently as she knelt beside Emma.
“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured her softly. “I just want to understand what happened today.”
I sat silently in the corner, my hands clenched together so tightly they hurt.
I could only hear pieces of their conversation.
“Did anyone get angry with you?”
“Were you scared?”
“Can you show me what happened?”
Emma’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.
After a while, Claire stepped into the hallway with me.
“She said she fell on the back steps,” Claire explained carefully. “But she also told me she had been crying before that.”
I swallowed hard.
“Why?”
“She said she wanted to call you, and someone told her to stop acting like a baby.”
My vision blurred.
“She also said that when she wouldn’t stop crying, someone grabbed her arm hard and told her to sit still because she was embarrassing them.”
The bruises.
The flinch.