pocket and handed me his phone.
There were photographs.
Dates.
Notes.
Pictures of Emma’s skin taken almost every day.
On some days, the redness was barely visible.
On others, it was severe.
Daniel had documented everything.
Then he showed me a pattern.
The worst flare-ups happened on Tuesdays and Fridays.
The days my mother watched Emma while we were both working.
I felt cold.
“No.”
“I thought it was coincidence too.”
He swiped to another photograph.
It showed the pink bottle sitting on Emma’s changing table.
“I threw the original bottle away.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“But that bottle is—”
“Exactly.”
He nodded toward the plastic bag.
“Your mother brought another one.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
Daniel rubbed both hands over his face.
“Because the last time I suggested your mother might be ignoring something we asked her
