A doctor ordered X-rays.
A police officer met us in the exam room and explained that they would need statements.
He used words like incident report, protective order, and child services notification.
Those words sounded cold.
They also sounded necessary.
At 3:04 p.m., the X-ray technician positioned Noah’s arm with a gentleness that made me almost cry harder than the injury had.
Noah asked if he was in trouble.
Every adult in the room stopped moving.
“No,” I said immediately. “No, buddy. You did exactly the right thing. You called me.”
“He said boys don’t cry.”
Derek, standing by the curtain with his arms folded, looked away at the wall.
Lena covered her mouth.
I brushed Noah’s hair back from his forehead.
“He was wrong,” I said. “Crying is what told us you needed help.”
Noah thought about that.
Then he whispered, “Uncle Derek came fast.”
Derek cleared his throat.
