“About a month,” she said.
My heart dropped.
A month.
I had known weeks.
She had carried it longer.
Dr. Lawson asked about food, school, sleep, weight, medications, and whether the pain moved or stayed in one place.
Maya answered in short sentences.
Sometimes she swallowed hard before speaking.
Sometimes she pressed her hand under the edge of her hoodie and waited for the pain to pass.
He ordered blood work and an ultrasound.
He said it like a routine step, but I saw the way his eyes moved from Maya’s face to her stomach and back again.
The blood draw came first.
Maya hated needles, but she held still.
I watched her jaw clench.
A purple band appeared around her arm where the tourniquet had been.
The nurse labeled the tubes and placed them in a plastic bag with a printed sticker.
Name.
Time.
Patient number.
Proof that my daughter’s pain had entered a system where someone else finally had to acknowledge it.
Then came the ultrasound.
The technician rolled the machine in and warmed the gel between her hands.
Maya flinched when the wand touched her stomach.
“I’m sorry, honey,” the technician said.
Maya stared at the ceiling tiles.
I stood near her shoes.
They were the same white sneakers she had worn to school all year, now loose because she had lost weight.
The room filled with the low hum of the machine.
Gray shapes moved across the screen.
I did not know what I was looking at.
I only knew the technician’s face changed.
It was small.
A pause.
A stillness.
Her fingers stopped moving on the keyboard.
She looked at the screen, then at Maya, then back to the screen.
My stomach turned cold.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
The technician smiled too quickly.
“The doctor will go over the results with you.”
That is when Robert texted.
Where are you?
I turned the phone face down.
A minute later, it buzzed again.
