“Mommy, I’m going to paint now!”
With that, the little girl bounced away, her pigtails flying as she sprinted toward the art room.
“Alright, I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner!” Camila Davis finally let out a long, relieved sigh.
She headed to the kitchen and asked Susan to whip up some of Lillian’s favorite dishes—mac and cheese, chicken tenders, and a big bowl of Caesar salad.
When dinner was finally ready, Camila glanced at her phone and noticed a new message from Dennis Williams:
“Hey, I heard from Larry Adams that Lillian had a rough day. Is she okay?”
Reading the text, Camila felt a warm surge of gratitude.
Jordan Smith, Lillian’s biological father, was always picking fights with her in front of their daughter, never once thinking about how it might affect the little girl. Yet here were people like Dennis, with no blood ties to Lillian, who always seemed to check in the minute something happened.
She didn’t bother hiding the truth from him.
“She’s doing alright,” Camila replied. “I talked to her when we got home, and she seems to be handling things better. She’s starting to figure things out for herself, learning right from wrong. I don’t think it’s affected her too much.”
Dennis texted back almost immediately. “That’s good to hear. If you need anything, let me know, okay?”
“Thanks, I will,” Camila replied.
But that night, Camila realized she’d been way too optimistic.
Around midnight, Lillian started tossing in her sleep, little whimpers leaking out as she curled into a ball under her Frozen blanket. Tears streaked her cheeks, and in a tiny, broken voice, she muttered, “Lillian’s not dumb… Lillian didn’t do anything wrong…”
“Daddy doesn’t like me… He’s mean to Mommy… I hate Daddy…”
“Grandma’s bad… Mr. Williams, Mr. Williams is bad…”
Camila woke with a jolt, her heart shattering at the pitiful cries. She reached out to comfort her daughter, but the second her hand touched Lillian’s skin, she froze—her little girl was burning up.
“Shh, sweetheart, Mommy’s here. It’s okay. I’m right here…”
Camila shot out of bed and immediately started her tried-and-true fever protocol. Susan, woken by the commotion, hurried in, worry etched on her face.
“Ms. Davis, should we get her to the hospital?” Susan asked anxiously.
“No, it’s okay. I can handle this,” Camila said. After all, she was a doctor. No one knew Lillian’s medical history better than she did, and their medicine cabinet was always well-stocked.
“Alright, I’ll help however I can,” Susan said, a little embarrassed for panicking. After all, every time Lillian got sick, Camila never left her side.



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