My 7-year-old stays with my ex.

For a second, my mind refused to understand. “The shed? In the backyard?”

“Yes. The door—” she sucked in a sharp breath—“it won’t open.”

I grabbed my keys and my coat in one motion. “Listen to me, baby. I’m on my way. Stay on the phone. Okay?”

“I hear mice,” she said softly. “And it’s really cold.”

Anger hit me so fast I could taste it. “Is your dad there? Can you hear him?”

“The TV,” she answered. “He’s mad. He said I was lying.”

I didn’t ask what about. I didn’t argue. I ran.

The drive across town felt endless. Streetlights blurred past while I gripped the wheel and kept talking, my voice the only thing tethering her to calm. “Mia, keep talking to me. What do you see?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Just a little light under the door.”
“Can you wrap up in anything?”

“I’m in my pajamas,” she said, trembling. “My shoes are outside.”

No shoes. Cold night. A locked shed. A punishment far too big for a child.