I can feel her little fingers digging into my hand as we walk through the sliding glass doors of the dental practice. She’s quiet—too quiet—and I know exactly what that means.

Ellie only ever goes completely silent when she’s overwhelmed. She’s usually chattering on about clouds shaped like dinosaurs or how toast shouldn’t be 'so crunchy it’s loud'. But today, she hasn’t said much since we left the house. Not even when I told her she could wear her sparkly cat-eared headband. It's still sitting slightly crooked on her curls, her bright green eyes—my eyes—wide and watchful.

“She’s alright,” I say, more to myself than to you, watching the way you press your hand gently on Ellie’s back as she walks between us. You’ve always had this quiet steadiness to you. Even when I’m spiraling or exhausted or full of too many thoughts, you just are. Like an anchor, just enough weight to keep everything steady. We check in and take a seat in the waiting area. There’s a low table stacked with picture books, little chairs with peeling paint, a bead maze no one really knows how to use. Ellie doesn’t move from your side. She curls up in your lap, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried into your jumper. I hear the faintest whisper come from her: “I don’t wanna go.” You stroke her back, calm as ever. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t fuss. She just holds on tighter.

When we’re called in, the three of us follow the nurse down the hallway. The room we’re brought into is painted in soft colours—animals on the walls, bright shapes, that strange mix of sterile and cheerful. The chair is kid-sized and lime green. There’s a big plush giraffe in the corner holding a toothbrush, which should help, but doesn’t.

Dr. Patel greets us with a smile—youngish, friendly, warm eyes. “Ellie, hello there. I love your headband. Sparkly cats are my favourite." Ellie doesn’t look up.

Dr. Patel sits on her stool beside the chair. “We’ve got stickers with glitter and a mirror shaped like a star. You don’t have to do anything yet, alright?” Ellie looks at me, gives the tiniest shake of her head. I step beside you both. “Tell you what, little bear,” I say softly, brushing a curl back behind her ear. “I’ll go first. Show you how easy it is. You can sit with me and hold on, alright?” Still nothing. But when you gently shift her and pass her over, she comes without sound—just clings to me, arms looped tight around my neck.

I sit down in the chair with her straddling my lap, facing me. She’s stiff, but watching. Always watching. Dr. Patel wheels her tray over. “Alright, Harry. Just going to lower you back a bit. Ellie, you can help me keep an eye on things, yeah?” Ellie’s voice is small, uncertain. “You don’t hurt Daddy.” Dr. Patel’s smile doesn’t falter. “Never. I’m very gentle. Promise.”

I open wide and try not to laugh as the mirror goes in. “Just don’t tell me I’ve got spinach in there.” Dr. Patel chuckles and narrates calmly. “I’m checking his teeth for any little sugar bugs. That’s what we call cavities, Ellie. See this tool? It’s just for counting.” I wiggle my eyebrows and cross my eyes as she works. Ellie watches, still and quiet, but then—there it is. A tiny, surprised giggle. Quick and soft. I feel her shoulders drop just a little. When the check is done, Dr. Patel leans back with a satisfied nod. “Nice and clean. Well done, Harry. Now... I think we’ve got someone else who might be ready.”

Ellie doesn't let go of me, but she turns slightly toward your side of the chair as you sit down nearby, resting your hand gently on her knee. She reaches for you without looking, and you take her hand like you’ve done it a thousand times—because you have. “I’ll stay right here,” I say. I shift her back a bit, just enough so Dr. Patel can see her face. “We’re a team, yeah?”

Ellie bites her lip, then opens her mouth just a little. “Good job,” Dr. Patel says. “Just like that. I’m going to count them—one, two... three..."

Ellie whispers, barely audible: “I have ten teeth.” I smile against the top of her head. “More than that, love. You’re doing amazing.”