Her breathing quickened.
And when he brought her close to his chest, she let out a cry so intense that even Margaret looked startled.
“Maybe she just prefers women,” Michael said with an awkward laugh, but there was irritation under it.
The morning I discovered her clothes had been changed without explanation, the unease sharpened.
I distinctly remembered putting her in a pale pink sleeper before bed, smoothing the fabric over her legs and kissing her forehead.
Yet when I lifted her from the crib the next morning, she was dressed in white.
Margaret explained that Olivia had spit up during the night and she had changed her.
That was reasonable.
Logical.
But when I searched the laundry basket for the pink outfit, it was gone.
“Already in the wash,” Margaret said quickly, though I had not heard the washing machine running when I came downstairs.
I told myself I was overthinking.
Until the pediatric appointment.
Boston Pediatric Clinic had soft pastel walls and framed photos of smiling babies lining the corridor.
Dr. Johnson had been our family pediatrician since Olivia was born, a calm man in his sixties with decades of experience.
He greeted us warmly and began the routine exam, measuring Olivia’s weight and length, nodding approvingly at her growth chart.
“Everything looks good physically,” he said.
Then he asked Michael to hold her while he listened to her heart.
The shift in the room was immediate.
Olivia’s entire body tensed.
