Her eyes immediately filled with tears.
Then she tried to speak.
The paramedic gently stopped her.
“Save your breath.”
Lily nodded again.
And then, impossibly, she gave me the look I had seen hundreds of times after spilled juice, forgotten homework, or a broken crayon.
The look that said she was sorry.
My daughter was sitting inside an ambulance struggling to breathe, and some part of her still believed she might be the one who had caused trouble.
That nearly broke me.
Behind us, Elaine said, “See? She does this. Everything becomes dramatic.”
I turned.
The officer beat me to it.
“Ma’am, I need you to stop speaking about the child while she is being treated.”
Elaine blinked.
Nobody in Elaine’s family told her to stop.
That had always been part of the problem.
My husband, Daniel, was forty years old and still changed when his mother used a certain tone.
