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For weeks, my 15-year-old daughter Kayla suffered from constant nausea and stomach pain, hiding inside her oversized hoodie and flinching at every touch. I knew something was horribly wrong, but the doctors kept brushing it off as teenage stress. Then, while washing her laundry, I found a hidden pocket inside her jacket , my blood boiling, and that night, I walked into the faculty dinner holding a baseball bat…

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the edge of her mattress, I saw her arms locked defensively around her torso. Her skin was a translucent, sickly pale, slick with cold sweat and tears.

“Mom,” she gasped, her voice fragile as spun glass. “It hurts. Please… please make it stop.”

I fell to my knees beside her, gathering her trembling, fragile frame into my arms. She felt horrifyingly small.continue reading …

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