“You answered.”
That became the sentence I remembered.
Karen did not stay in the house that night.
The officers told my father that because of the circumstances and the statements taken, it would be safest for her to stay elsewhere while the incident was reviewed. She left with a small bag and an expression that made me afraid she would come back angry.
My father saw that fear.
He locked the door after her.
Then he checked the balcony lock three times.
Grandma stayed with us.
I slept in my father’s room because I refused to be alone. He sat in a chair beside the bed until morning.
Every time I woke, he was still there.
The next day brought adults with notebooks.
A child services worker spoke to me in the living room while Grandma sat nearby. She asked what happened before the balcony, whether Karen had ever locked me out before, whether she hit me, whether I felt safe at home.
I wanted to give the answer that made the conversation end fastest.
Then I remembered Grandma’s words.
Only the truth.
So I told it.
Karen had not locked me outside before. She had called me names. She had made me stand facing the wall for long periods. She sometimes hid photographs of my mother because she said they made me “moody.” She waited until my father was at work to say the worst things.
My father heard some of this from the hallway.
His face seemed to age in one afternoon.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked later.
I looked at the floor.
“You liked her.”
He sat down slowly.
“That should never have made you afraid to tell me.”
I did not know what to say.
He covered his face with both hands.
“I should have seen it.”
Grandma spoke from the kitchen.
“You should have listened earlier too.”
My father looked at her.
