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It started with a phone call from the school nurse.
“Mrs. Miller, your son, Lucas, just vomited during class. He’s very pale and disoriented. We think you should come right away.”
“Hey, it’s Lucas. He’s sick at school. Can you—”
“I’m at work,” he cut me off, his voice cold and flat. “You’re the mother. Handle it.”
Then he hung up.
I felt a flash of something—maybe rage, maybe heartbreak—but there was no time. I drove straight to the school.
When I arrived, Lucas was no longer in the nurse’s office. Instead, I was greeted by two police officers.
“Mrs. Miller?” one of them asked. “Please come with us. We need to show you something.”
My heart dropped.
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