My hands shook as I grabbed my phone.
The moment I saw that fabric, I didn’t “wait to ask her later.”
I did the only thing that made sense.
I called the school.
When the secretary answered, I forced my voice to stay steady as I asked, “Has Sophie been having any accidents? Any injuries? Anything happening after school?”
There was a pause—too long.
Then she said quietly, “Mrs. Hart… can you come in right now?”
My throat tightened. “Why?”
Her next words made my blood go cold.
“Because you’re not the first parent to call about a child bathing the moment they get home.”
I drove to the school with the torn fabric sealed in a sandwich bag on the passenger seat, like evidence from a crime I didn’t want to name. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the steering wheel. Every red light felt unbearable.
