I don’t remember the drive to the private lab. I don’t remember parking, or walking inside, or handing over the swab and the hair sample I had collected from Mila’s water bottle. Everything felt like moving through fog, thick, cold and choking.

I only remember one thing clearly:

The moment the nurse said, “results will be ready within forty-eight hours.”

Forty-eight hours.

Forty-eight hours to confirm the truth I already knew in my bones.

Forty-eight hours to rehearse the same ...