walked past, I saw she was pressing the crayon so hard the paper had torn.

There was a tiny house on the page, a stick figure baby in a crib, and another stick figure standing outside the house with a suitcase.

I crouched beside her.

‘Who’s that?’

She covered the drawing with both hands.

‘Nobody.’

I should have asked more then.

Instead, I did what adults do when children seem uneasy.

I tried to make the room warmer.

I turned on lamps.

I put a cartoon on low.

I told her we would make spaghetti because it was her favorite at my house.

Usually, spaghetti made Sophie clap.

That night, she whispered, ‘With sauce?’

‘Of course with sauce.’

She stared at me.

‘Red sauce?’

I laughed softly.

‘Is there another kind in this house?’

She looked down and said nothing.

By dinner, the rain had started tapping against the kitchen windows.

My phone was on the counter, face up, waiting for updates from Emily.

The kitchen smelled like garlic, tomatoes, and warm bread.

It should have felt ordinary.

Sophie climbed into her chair and folded her napkin into a square so perfect it looked like a tiny envelope.

I set the plate in front of her.

‘There you go, Soph.

Extra parmesan, because I am your favorite aunt and I accept bribes in compliments.’

She gave me a smile that barely moved her face.

‘Are you nervous about the baby?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘That’s normal.’

She twisted her fork in the spaghetti.

‘What if he doesn’t come home?’

I thought she meant complications.

I thought she had overheard too many adult worries.

‘He will,’ I said.

‘Your mom is at the hospital with doctors.

Everybody is taking care of them.’

Her fork stopped.

‘That’s not what he said.’

‘Who?’

Sophie blinked fast, like she had stepped too close to the edge of something.

‘Nobody.’

Then she took the bite.

The change in her face was immediate and terrifying.

It was not a child deciding she disliked dinner.

It was recognition.

Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and the fork dropped from her hand.

She spat the food into the napkin and began shaking so hard the chair scraped against the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

I went to her instantly.

‘Sophie, what happened? Did you burn your mouth? Did something taste wrong?’

She pressed the napkin against her lips.

‘I tried.’

‘You tried what?’

Her shoulders lurched.

She gagged once, dry and painful, then bent forward with both arms wrapped around her stomach.

I got a bowl, water, a cold washcloth.

I checked her temperature.

No fever.

I checked her mouth.

Nothing caught in her throat.

Her skin felt clammy, and her pupils looked too wide in the kitchen light.

But what frightened me most was that she kept apologizing.

Kids apologize when they spill milk.

They apologize when they break something.

They do not apologize because their body rejects food unless someone has made them believe their body is misbehaving on purpose.

I knelt in front of her and took both her hands.

‘Listen to me.

You are not in trouble.

I need the truth so I can help you.

Did somebody give you something today?’

Her gaze jumped to the front window.

Then to the door.

The