5
I heard Lily before I opened the door.
Not a normal cry.
Not tired.
Not cranky.
Terror.
“No! Mommy!”
My keys slipped from my hand.
I shoved the door open and ran toward the living room.
The sight stopped my breath.
My two-year-old daughter was flat on the floor, sobbing so hard her small body shook.
Diane, my mother-in-law, had one arm pinning Lily down.
In her other hand was a little brown bottle.
She was forcing it toward my daughter’s mouth.
“DIANE!”
Her head snapped up.
Lily coughed instantly, choking and clawing at the rug.
I crossed the room and ripped the bottle from Diane’s hand.
“What did you give her?”
Diane stood and smoothed her shirt like I had interrupted something ordinary.
“She wouldn’t calm down.”
Lily gasped.
Her hands grabbed my blouse.
“Mommy…”
Her breathing was wrong.
Thin.
Whistling.
I scooped her up and dialed 911.
“What was in that bottle?”
Diane rolled her eyes.
“Something to help her settle.”
“You gave my toddler medicine without asking me?”
That was when Ryan came down the stairs.
My husband looked at Lily struggling in my arms, then at his mother.
“Mom, what happened?”
I screamed, “She forced Lily to drink something!”
Ryan sighed.
Actually sighed.
“Emily, Mom wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Our daughter can barely breathe!”
Diane reached for the bottle.
“Give me that.”
I pulled it behind my back.
“No.”
Fear flashed across her face.
Real fear.
Then Lily whispered against my shoulder, “Grandma gives it at night.”
Ryan went still.
I looked down.
“What, baby?”
Diane snapped, “She’s two. She doesn’t know words.”
Lily lifted a trembling finger toward the locked cabinet beside the kitchen.
“Daddy medicine.”
My stomach dropped.
I looked at Ryan.
“What is in that cabinet?”
He did not answer.
The paramedics arrived minutes later.
They took Lily from my arms and fitted a mask over her face.
One paramedic examined the bottle.
His expression changed.
“Ma’am, where did this come from?”
Diane grabbed her purse and moved toward the door.
A police officer stepped in front of her.
The paramedic looked at me.
“This prescription is not for your daughter.”
I turned the bottle over.
The label belonged to someone I knew immediately.
Claire Whitman.
