By the middle of the week, Emma’s reactions had escalated. Each bath time became a battle of wills. Her tiny body would stiffen, her skin turning pale, her small hands trembling uncontrollably. She would press herself into corners of the hallway as if I were forcing her into something unbearably dangerous.
On Wednesday evening, after a particularly grueling day at work, I announced it was time for a bath. Emma’s face immediately drained of color, and her hands shook as she approached the bathroom door. “Mom… I… I can’t,” she whispered, barely audible.
Frustration overtook me. I had been patient, I had tried to be gentle, but my own exhaustion clouded my judgment. “Emma! It’s just a bath! You’re making this harder than it needs to be!” I snapped.
The reaction was instantaneous. She let out a piercing scream, unlike anything I had ever heard from her. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the tile floor, shaking violently. My first thought was that she was having a seizure.
I wrapped her in my arms, trying to comfort her, but she fought with unexpected strength. “No… no… please!” she gasped. Her panic was pure, raw, and utterly terrifying.
