I looked up sharply. “Your mom? Denise?”

He nodded. “Just for the day. She wants to help.”

That alone should have been a red flag. Denise had avoided babysitting for eight years, always armed with excuses—her dog couldn’t be left alone, something urgent had come up, another obligation she’d forgotten. But Theresa had been sick all night, burning with fever and exhaustion, and I had already missed work earlier that month. I didn’t have a choice.

Against my instincts, I agreed.

Theresa was eight years old, pale and worn out, her long blonde hair damp against her forehead. I kissed her gently, handed Denise the fever medicine, and explained everything slowly and clearly. No visitors. No leaving the house. No cold drinks. And most importantly—no cutting her hair.

“She needs rest,” I said firmly. “Please.”