“Some.”
I stared at him.
“You’ve been paying for Emma’s treatment with our savings?”
“I didn’t want her care delayed.”
I started crying.
Not because of the money.
Because I finally understood how much fear he had been carrying alone.
I reached for his hand.
“You don’t get to do this alone anymore.”
He squeezed my fingers.
“I know.”
“We’re a family.”
“I know.”
“Then we face it together.”
That afternoon, we took Emma to the specialist.
After several more tests, the neurologist confirmed that she had a treatable seizure disorder.
The doctor explained everything carefully.
There would be medication.
There would be monitoring.
There would be follow-up appointments.
But there was also something else.
Hope.
Real hope.
For the first time in months, I slept through an entire night.
When I woke up, sunlight was coming through the curtains.
Evan was beside me.
His hand was resting on mine.
Emma was asleep in her own room.
And the house was quiet.
The kind of quiet I had once feared.
Now it felt peaceful.
A few weeks later, I found the camera I’d hidden in Emma’s room.
I took it down.
I didn’t need it anymore.
That night, Emma walked into our bedroom.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can I sleep here?”
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