Page 2 — The Exhaustion That Didn’t Make Sense
When Emma’s teacher called, my stomach dropped before he even finished his first sentence.
“Mrs. Collins,” he said, “Emma has been falling asleep in class. Sometimes she’s hard to wake.”
I felt embarrassed first—the reflex of a parent who thinks she’s failing.
Then I felt fear.
At home, I searched her room for anything obvious:
- A hidden phone
- A game console
- Snacks and energy drinks
- Anything that explained late nights
I found a small flashlight tucked near her pillow.
My first thought was relief: maybe she’s reading under the covers.
But the kind of exhaustion her teacher described didn’t match a few stolen chapters of a book.
I tried to talk to her gently.
She avoided my eyes and repeated the same line in different forms:
“I’m fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Don’t worry.”
Her pediatrician didn’t find anything alarming on a basic exam.
He mentioned muscle tension, stress, and that sometimes kids carry more than they say out loud.
I even suggested counseling.
Michael responded calmly—too calmly.
“Let’s not overreact,” he said. “Bringing in strangers might pressure her. I’ll try connecting with her more.”
His words sounded responsible.
And that’s the problem with someone who knows how to perform “reasonable.”
They can keep you doubting your own instincts just long enough to stay comfortable.
Then Emma’s neck pain reminded me it wasn’t fading.
It was escalating.
“It hurts to wash my hair,” she said one morning, close to tears.
That’s when I decided we’d cut it shorter. Lighter. Easier.
It felt like a practical solution.
Like something I could control.
On the next page: the salon moment where everything stopped being “normal.” ⬇️⬇️⬇️
