>Mallory
The fluorescent lights of the hospital always made me feel exposed—like every insecurity, every crack in my heart, every sleepless night was suddenly on display for the world to see.
Asher sat in the corner of the child psychologist's playroom, small hands balled so tightly that his knuckles looked pale. His eyes darted everywhere, and his face was laced with fear.
"Asher," I whispered gently, kneeling a safe distance away. "Sweetheart, the doctor just wants to talk to you. It's okay."
It wasn't okay.
He was already holding his breath, his little chest rising and falling too fast, the way he always did when the room felt too loud, too bright, or foreign.
Dr. Liora, the child psychologist, sat on a small stool with a clipboard resting on her lap. She was kind, younger than I expected, with soft brown curls tied neatly at her nape. She kept her voice low, almost like she was talking to a frightened animal she didn't want to spook.
