She was still in her pajamas.
“Emma, sweetie, what’s wrong?” I set the dress down and knelt to her level.
She didn’t answer. She just walked up to me, her small hand clutching a crumpled piece of paper. She pressed it into my palm, her fingers trembling.
She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, then closed it.
Her chin wobbled. Then she turned and ran out of the room.
I stood there, confused, staring at the paper in my hand. My heart was already pounding.
Something was wrong.
I unfolded the note slowly. In her careful, childlike handwriting, it said:
My heart stopped. The paper, damp from my fingers, trembled as I tried to read it again.
What did that mean? My hands started shaking.
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