“Mom, Mrs. Harris said I can have the last chocolate pudding if you say yes, and I already finished my math—”

My daughter froze in the doorway. Ava was eight, with dark curls in a messy ponytail and a purple backpack over one shoulder. Her copper-brown eyes were bright, warm, and identical to Ethan Caldwell’s.

He rose slowly from the examination table. Every bit of air seemed to leave the room.

“Mom?” Ava glanced between us.

“Ava,” I said quietly, “go back to the nurses’ station.”

“But—”

“Now, baby.”

She hesitated, curiosity all over her face, then slipped back outside and shut the door. Ethan never took his eyes off it. His face had gone completely white.

“How old is she?” he asked.

I tightened my grip on the chart. “Your EKG doesn’t show any immediate signs of a heart attack. I’ll have another physician continue your evaluation.”

“How old is she, Maya?”

My eyes shot back to his. “You don’t get to say my name like you still have the right.”