That flinch. That singular, terrified flinch told me everything I needed to know. It was the absolute, undeniable truth of my failure as a father, wrapped in the undeniable guilt of the woman walking toward us.
"Daddy, please," Emily whimpered, her voice barely a thread of sound. "Don't let her in."
"She is not coming in," I said. My voice was dangerously low, a dark, vibrating tone I didn't recognize.
I stood up from the bed. Dr. Patel moved subtly, positioning himself between the bed and the doorway, a silent, professional guardian. The social worker stepped forward, her clipboard clutched tightly against her chest
Rachel appeared in the doorway. She was dressed perfectly, as always. A beige cashmere sweater, tailored jeans, her hair pulled back into a neat, effortless clip. She looked flustered, her eyes wide with manufactured panic. She spotted me and immediately reached out her hands.