On Christmas Day, 18-month-old Ava Floyd ingested “a large quantity” of fentanyl while her parents were producing and packing the potent drug for sale at their home in Clinton Township, Mich. That afternoon, Ava died at a local hospital. An autopsy found that her tiny body contained “15 times as much fentanyl as officials have seen in recent overdose deaths.”

I read the heartbreaking story of Ava’s death just before I entered my daughter’s room to turn her ambient sound machine from lullabies to white noise. From the side of her crib, I looked down at my daughter’s sprawled-out sleeping form, all 23 pounds of her brimming with limitless potential. I reached my hand down to touch her chest, to feel it rise and fall, thinking of the thousands of hours I have devoted to keeping her safe and happy.