I was preparing dinner when my little daughter tugging on my robe. “Mom, can I stop taking the pills Aunt gave me?” My bl00d ran cold. Trying not to frighten her, I calmly told her to bring me the bottle. When I took it for analysis, the doctor turned pale: “Do you know what this is? Where did you get it?”

Heat surged through me—fear, guilt, anger all at once. Renee had crossed a line I hadn’t imagined possible.

“Is Hazel in danger?”

“She seems stable,” he said, “but we need more tests. And you must find out how many she’s taken.”

Driving home, gripping the vial, I replayed every time Renee had compared Hazel to her overachieving son, every comment about “optimized brains” and “unlocking potential.” I’d brushed her off before. Now her intentions felt frighteningly deliberate.

I spoke to Hazel that afternoon, kneeling beside her.

“Honey, when did Aunt Renee give you these? Did she say not to tell me?”

Hazel hesitated. Then nodded. “She said it was our special secret. She said you already worry too much.”

I swallowed hard. “Did she watch you take them?”

“Sometimes. She said I had to be ‘consistent.’”

My skin crawled. This wasn’t an accident—Renee had been monitoring her.

I called her immediately. She answered with her cheerful voice. “Hey! Everything okay?”

“You gave my daughter unprescribed stimulants,” I said.

A beat. Then an annoyed sigh. “Oh, come on. They’re harmless supplements. You’re overreacting.”

“The doctor tested them.”

Silence. Heavy.