That sentence had carried our marriage for years.

Not because they could fix it.

They couldn’t.

But because Meadow was shaking so hard she couldn’t stop touching her head, and I needed someone gentle around her.

The stylist—a woman named Reina with silver braids and kind eyes—took one look at Meadow and quietly locked the front door behind us even though it was still business hours.

“No one else is coming in,” she said softly. “Not today.”