Not once.
Not accidentally.
Repeatedly.
Enough to explain Emma’s lethargy, poor coordination, appetite changes, emotional blunting, and confusion.
The toxicologist said Emma was lucky.
Lucky.
I almost laughed.
My daughter had been drugged in her own home by her grandmother, and the word lucky entered the room wearing a white coat.
“What could have happened?” I asked.
The toxicologist hesitated.
“Respiratory depression. Severe sedation. Falls. Choking. Depending on dose, potentially coma.”
The floor vanished beneath me.
I sat before my body decided to fall.
Emma was asleep.
Her bunny tucked under her chin.
Her curls spread across the pillow.
Coma.
My four-year-old.
Because Diane wanted her quiet.
Or obedient.
Or useful.
Or something even worse.
I looked toward the hallway.
Andrés was standing there.
