My Husband Told Our Daughter to Keep Her Clinic Visits Hidden From Our Bank Account

It was a sharp, chemical lemon scent that lodged at the back of my throat.

I steered Hannah toward a row of vinyl chairs by the front window.

“Sit right here,” I said.

“I’ll go sign us in.”

I went up to the thick glass partition.

The receptionist was typing noisily on her keyboard, her blue lanyards sliding against her collar.

Her plastic badge said Brenda Brooks, Intake Supervisor.

“We’re checking in,” I said.