My daughter is eight years old. She still sleeps with a nightlight, still believes I can fix anything, still runs toward me instead of away when she’s scared. So when she walked through the front door that afternoon shaking—her backpack slipping from her shoulder, her eyes red and unfocused—I knew something was terribly wrong.
She didn’t cry right away. She just stood there, fists clenched, breathing too fast. When I knelt and asked what happened, the words came out broken.
“My teacher yelled at me,” she whispered. “In front of everyone.”
I felt my chest tighten. “What did she say?”
My daughter swallowed hard.
