“She wasn’t harmed intentionally,” the doctor continued. “No one poisoned her. But she was exposed. And her body couldn’t handle it.” Carrie collapsed into the chair beside Maxine’s bed, one hand flying to her mouth. She cried too—quiet, shaking sobs—not from guilt or anger, but from the overwhelming relief of knowing their daughter was going to be okay.
It hadn’t been malice. It had been certainty. Eleanor had trusted what she knew. Too much. Long-held habits, passed down without question. Love, layered with confidence, layered with routine. And none of it had been enough to keep Maxine safe.