For three years, my mother-in-law, Linda, had been confined to bed after suffering a major stroke. Because my husband, Mark, worked long hours, nearly all the daily care fell to me. Our five-year-old daughter, Sophie, often trailed after me, eager to “help,” even if it meant slowing me down. That Tuesday afternoon, she insisted on assisting with Linda’s laundry while I stripped the sheets from the extra bed we used as a folding station.
I was sorting through towels when Sophie suddenly let out a sharp gasp.
“Mommy! Look at this!”
She held something tiny between her fingers, careful and precise—clearly sensing it wasn’t something she should play with. Expecting a lost button or a forgotten coin, I walked over casually.
See continuation on next pageThe moment I saw it, my stomach dropped.
It was a small prescription bottle—the type used for powerful medications. The label was worn, the cap scratched. But what sent a chill through me was the information printed on it.
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