I fix my gaze on the ceiling, counting my breaths, letting the urgency fade into something manageable. He should be leaving soon; he has to be at the arena by nine. Routine. Predictable. The sooner, the better. I strain to listen for cues: the rustle of a bag being lifted, the whisper of a zipper, the faint thud of shoes hitting the floor. Each sound registers like a checkpoint I need to pass before I can finally relax.
Lucy shifts beside me, sighs, and then settles back into her peaceful slumber. I hold my breath until the moment she does. Eventually, I hear the front door open and close softly behind him. Silence envelops the house. I count to thirty, then sixty, allowing myself to wait longer than necessary. Patience is indeed a virtue I possess, unlike some people.
The pediatrician’s office is a blend of disinfectant and the sweet scent of fruit snacks, an oddly tolerable combination. The pastel walls are adorned with laminated posters that explain concepts no child has ever needed to grasp, their language far beyond their years. Lucy sits beside me on the crinkly paper-covered exam table, her legs swinging playfully, shoes tapping lightly against the metal frame as she clutches my hand. She radiates calmness, curiosity, and alertness.
Dr. Kaplan enters, a tablet tucked under her arm, her smile warm yet rehearsed. She immediately crouches down to meetLucy's gaze. “Well,” she says, extending her hand, “you must be Lucy.”
Lucy nods gravely and shakes it. “I’m three.”
“Excellent age,” Dr. Kaplan responds, her tone brightening. “I’m so glad you could make time for me today,” I observe closely, noting Lucy’s careful assessment of this new adult in her life.
“Wow, that’s a lot of signatures on your cast,” Dr. Kaplan continues.
“My friends signed it,” Lucy replies, pointing to Lenzin’s name. “He talks fancy, just like he colors.”
It’s adorable how she says “colors” instead of “writes.” I know one day I’ll need to correct her, but for now, I want her to revel in being a child, embraced by someone who loves her unconditionally—not someone who nitpicks her every word. When the time comes, my corrections will be meaningful and nurturing, unlike those that seek to belittle.
“That’s very fancy,” Dr. Kaplan laughs softly.
“This is Hank; he broke his arm once in an accident. He said it makes it hurt less when your friends color their names on it.”
Dr. Kaplan pulls up a wheeled stool and sits down. “Did that help?”
Lucy’s lips twist thoughtfully as she glances between Dr. Kaplan and me. “I like to think so.”
Dr. Kaplan turns to me, her brow raised. “Wow, Lucy reasons at a very high level.”
“Does that mean I’m smart like Hildy?” Lucy asks, her eyes wide with hope.
“It means you’re intelligent beyond your years, and if Hildy is too, then yes.” Dr. Kaplan glances down at her tablet, her expression shifting for a moment before she swallows hard. “Now that we see how strong your brain is, let’s see how strong your body is.”
The exam proceeds with the routine motions: height, weight, reflexes. Dr. Kaplan instructs Lucy to walk across the room and back, which she does, arms slightly spread for balance, her concentration palpable.
“Good,” Dr. Kaplan murmurs to herself.
Next, she asks Lucy to bend and to stand on one foot. Lucy complies, seriousness etched on her face as if this is vital work. Once she finishes, Dr. Kaplan straightens and addresses me directly.
“So,” she begins, “I’ve reviewed Lucy’s history.”
Here we go.
She details it carefully, unhurried. Early instability, orthopedic concerns flagged at eighteen months, missed follow-ups, and notes trailing off where consistency should have been.
“None of this is uncommon,” she says, gauging my reaction. “But it does mean we should pick things back up properly.”
She recommends a follow-up with pediatric orthopedics—imaging, updated assessments, a long-term plan instead of mere stopgaps.
I nod, absorbing the information, mentally filing it away. “We can do that.”
“We should,” she corrects gently. “I’ll have my office schedule it before you leave.”
Her fingers fly over the tablet, then she looks back at Lucy. “You did a great job today.”
Lucy beams proudly. “I didn’t cry!”
“That’s impressive,” Dr. Kaplan agrees, her smile genuine.
While Lucy is distracted by a sticker being offered, I reach into my bag and pull out a folded piece of paper, my heart rate quickening.
