“Where is my daughter?” I demanded, my chest heaving, ignoring everything she just said. “Where is Emma? I want to see my daughter.”
Lawson’s expression finally softened into something resembling pity, and that terrified me more than her suspicion.
“Child Protective Services was called to the scene, Sarah. Given the violent nature of the incident, and the conflicting stories about child endangerment, CPS has taken emergency temporary custody of Emma. She’s being placed with a foster family overnight while the judge reviews the case in the morning.”
The room spun. The walls tilted inward.
“No,” I choked out, pushing back from the table, my chair scraping violently against the floor. “No! You can’t take her! She didn't do anything wrong! She saved a baby’s life! You can't let him do this to us!”
“Sit down, Ms. Miller,” Lawson ordered, standing up. “Your bail has been posted. Your lawyer is waiting outside. But if you try to contact David or Chloe tonight, or if you go anywhere near your daughter’s temporary placement, I will lock you up for violating a protective order, and you will never see that little girl again.”
I couldn't breathe. The panic attack I had been fighting off all day finally swallowed me whole. I was released into the custody of my court-appointed attorney, walking out of the precinct into the cold, dark evening as a completely broken woman. I had lost. David had won. He had manipulated the system, manipulated his own son’s safety, and stripped away the only thing that mattered to me.
My lawyer drove me home in silence. When I walked into my empty, dark house, the silence was agonizing. I sat on the living room floor, my back against the sofa, staring at the torn sneakers sitting by the front door.
I was weeping, utterly defeated, when my eyes fell on Emma’s pink sparkly backpack sitting near the kitchen island.
I crawled over to it, pulling it into my lap, just wanting to smell her, to hold something that belonged to her. I unzipped the main compartment. Inside, resting beneath a crumpled math worksheet, was her iPad tablet. The battery was at ten percent.
I opened the cover. The screen lit up.
It was open to the messages app.
Emma wasn't allowed to have social media, but we let her use iMessage over Wi-Fi to text me, her dad, and her grandparents. I stared at the screen, my heart pounding a erratic rhythm against my ribs.
The message thread on the screen was with Daddy.
My thumb hovered over the glass. I scrolled up.
Daddy (Yesterday, 8:45 PM): Remember our secret about Chloe’s shopping. If you tell Mommy, she goes away.
Emma (Yesterday, 8:46 PM): I won't tell. But I'm scared.
Daddy (Yesterday, 8:50 PM): Good girl. You want to see me tomorrow? Tell Mommy you need new shoes. Go to the mall at 2:30. I have a surprise.
I read the texts again. And again.
He didn't just know I was going to the mall. He had instructed his seven-year-old daughter to manipulate me into taking her there, at that exact time, promising her a "surprise" while threatening her with my imprisonment.
I dropped the tablet onto the carpet.
The fear inside me vanished. The anxiety that had plagued me for six months evaporated into thin air, burned away by a mother’s pure, unadulterated fury. David thought I was weak. He thought my anxiety made me a victim. He forgot that the only thing stronger than a mother’s fear is a mother’s rage.