Her cry was not gradual, not fussy.
It was explosive.
Her face flushed deep red, her breathing rapid, her arms stiff against her sides.
Dr. Johnson did not interrupt the reaction.
He watched.
Carefully.
“Let’s observe for a moment,” he said quietly.
When a male nurse stepped closer, Olivia froze completely, her crying cutting off mid-sound as if someone had flipped a switch.
Her body became rigid, her breaths shallow.
I felt a cold wave pass through me.
When Margaret entered the room minutes later and took Olivia into her arms, my daughter relaxed almost instantly.
Her shoulders softened.
Her breathing steadied.
She even managed a faint, sleepy smile.
That was when Dr. Johnson asked to speak to me alone.
Inside the private consultation room, he closed the door gently.
“Emily,” he said, folding his hands together. “Your daughter is displaying a selective fear response.”
I stared at him, not fully understanding.
“Babies can instinctively differentiate between safe and unsafe individuals,” he continued. “Her reaction to men, particularly her father, is extreme.”
My mouth went dry.
“Are you saying Michael did something?”
