Emma was four years old.
She was sitting on the examination table in pink socks, her little legs swinging above the floor. The white paper beneath her crackled every time she moved.
She was twisting the bottom of her T-shirt between both fists.
She looked frightened.
Not because she understood what the police were doing outside.
She was frightened because adults had suddenly become serious after she had finally told the truth.
And I would spend the rest of my life remembering the question she had asked me less than an hour earlier.
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