I was chopping vegetables when my four-year-old daughter

before he can answer.

Emma is curled slightly around her bunny. Her face is wet with tears she is trying to hide.

“Mommy, I want to go home.”

I sit beside her and pull her against me.

“I know, baby.”

“I won’t be bad.”

The words rip through me.

I cup her face.

“Listen to me. Look at me.”

Her eyes struggle to focus.

“You are not bad. You have never been bad. Grandma continue reading …