But over the last two weeks, something has started to sound wrong in a way that I can’t describe.
Every morning, without exception, Olivia started crying the moment Michael entered the room.
It was not ordinary crying, nor hunger or discomfort, but something more intense, a desperate thing.
The first time I thought it was a coincidence.
And in the second I blamed myself.
By the fifth consecutive morning, the pattern was clear and undeniable.
One morning, as I bent over her bed and whispered good morning, her little body stiffened before I even touched her.
When Michael’s footsteps echoed in the aisle, her crying escalated into a sharp scream that pulled my chest from the inside.
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