Carrie collapsed into the chair beside Mike, crying—not from guilt, not from anger, but from a relief so sharp it hurt. Eleanor hadn’t meant to harm her. Love, it turned out, wasn’t always enough. “Repeated exposure,” the doctor explained quietly. “Small amounts. Over time. Enough to cause fever, lethargy, appetite suppression. Especially in a child her size.”
Mike sat very still as the words settled. His hands were shaking now, openly, and he didn’t try to stop it. He pressed his palms together, bowed his head, and cried—not loudly, not dramatically, but with the broken restraint of someone who had been holding himself together for far too long.