The morning was already tense when my phone buzzed — it was my five-year-old daughter, Lily. Instead of her cheerful voice, I heard a weak whisper: “Daddy… my tummy hurts. Really bad.”

I rushed home without a second thought. Lily was curled on the sofa, pale and sweating, her stomach swollen and hard. I carried her to the ER, trying to sound reassuring even though I knew something was terribly wrong.

The triage nurse moved us ahead immediately. Dr. Aris examined her, and his expression darkened. “We need an ultrasound — now.” Minutes later, Lily was taken away, and I paced the room in panic.

When the doctor returned, he wasn’t alone — two officers stood beside him. He held up the scan and said coldly, “These are narcotic packets. I’ve called Child Protective Services. You’re being taken into custody.”

I was stunned. “I’m a cop — undercover,” I said, realizing the unthinkable. My ex-wife’s boyfriend was part of the drug ring I’d been investigating. They must have used Lily as a courier.

While the officers verified my identity, Lily was rushed into surgery. After four agonizing hours, the surgeon said they had removed all the packets — one had already started leaking. Thirty more minutes and she wouldn’t have survived.

A tactical team later raided my ex-wife’s apartment. Her boyfriend tried to escape, and evidence of drug packaging was everywhere. She was arrested without protest.

The case exploded in the media, but all that mattered was when Lily finally woke up. “The bad man said they were magic beans,” she whispered. I stayed with her every step of recovery.

I eventually left the force — I couldn’t live with the memories of that day. Lily and I moved to a quiet coastal town. She still carries a thin scar across her stomach, a reminder of how close I came to losing her — but when she laughs, I know we were given a second chance. Now, I’m no longer an officer. I’m just a father — and that’s the only title I need.