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

presses her cheek into my sweater.

“Quiet candy.”

My hand goes still on her back.

The nurse writes it down.

Quiet candy.

I hate those words.

I hate that they sound soft.

I hate that my daughter’s mouth knows them.

The doctor asks, “Did she give you one today?”

Emma nods.

“When?”

“After Daddy went to work.”

“How many?”

She lifts one little finger.

Then, after a hesitation,continue reading …