“Mommy, are we in trouble?”
I picked her up from the table.
She was heavier than usual.
Not because she had grown.
Because her little body was limp with exhaustion that should not have been there.
“No, baby. We are safe.”
But I didn’t know if that was true.
Not yet.
The police arrived eight minutes later.
I know because I stared at the clock the entire time.
Eight minutes can be a lifetime when someone you once loved is trying to force his way through a door and the woman who has been poisoning your child is standing beside him pretending concern.
When the officers entered, Diane changed instantly.
Her voice broke.
Her hands trembled.
She leaned into Andrés as if her bad knee had suddenly remembered its role.
“Thank God you’re here,” she cried. “My daughter-in-law has been unstable for weeks. She took my granddaughter without telling anyone. She won’t let us see her.”
Andrés put an arm around his mother.
He looked at me through the clinic hallway glass with disgust.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Disgust.
