“No. I’m just no longer protecting the person who did.”
She raised her hand.
My father stepped between us.
He did not touch her.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply said:
“Try it.”
She lowered her hand.
That night, I slept for almost five hours.
The longest since Emma had whispered about the pills.
When I woke, I found Emma sitting beside me with her bunny.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Can bad grandmas go to jail?”
I sat up slowly.
“Sometimes.”
“Will mine?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Will she be mad?”
“Yes.”
Emma nodded.
Then she said:
“But she can be mad far away.”
I pulled her into my arms.
“Yes, baby. Far away.”
The months that followed were not dramatic in the way people imagine.
There was no single explosion.
No sudden healing.
No magical apology that repaired everything.
There were appointments.
Forms.
Statements.
Nightmares.
Insurance calls.
Lawyer bills.
Therapy bills.
Custody hearings.
There were mornings when Emma laughed and afternoons when she hid under tables.
There were days I felt powerful and nights I checked the locks seven times.
I filed for separation from Andrés.
He did not fight it.
That surprised me.
Then angered me.
Then saddened me.
Part of me had expected him to become his mother’s soldier again.
Another part had hoped he would fight for us.
Not with lawyers.
With change.
With truth.
