I got to my feet with my phone pressed into my palm.
For one hard second, every part of me wanted to call my husband right there in that exam room and demand an explanation.
I wanted to ask why he had taken our fifteen-year-old daughter to a medical appointment five weeks earlier and never told me.
I wanted to ask why the chart showed that additional imaging had been recommended while the version our daughter remembered hearing at home was that nothing important had been found.
Most of all, I wanted to ask why our daughter believed I had agreed that her pain was nothing more than a bid for attention.
But my daughter was still sitting on the paper-covered exam bed with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.
She had spent weeks believing both of her parents had dismissed her.
Calling him first would have made the next few minutes about him.
So I lowered the phone.
The doctor was still beside the computer, the older note open on the screen.
Five weeks.
That number had changed the shape of the entire afternoon.
I had signed my daughter out of school the day before because she had finally said something I could not ignore.
“I stopped telling Dad when it hurts,” she had whispered. “He says I’m just doing it for attention.”
I can still remember the way she said it.
There was no teenage anger in her voice.
No dramatic accusation.
