My 7-year-old stays with my ex.

When I pulled into my ex’s driveway, the house was dark except for the flicker of the television in the living room. The yard was silent.

“Mia,” I said, already out of the car, “I’m here. I’m in the backyard.”

“I hear you!” she cried, relief cracking through her fear.

I rushed toward the back gate, nearly tripping over a hose. The shed stood near the fence, a small shadowed box. I pressed my ear to the door.

“Mia, sweetheart, it’s Mommy. I’m right here.”

A tiny fist thumped weakly from inside. “Mommy!”

I tried the handle.

Locked.

Without hesitating, I grabbed a brick from the flowerbed and smashed it against the padlock. The sound echoed in the yard. On the third hit, the lock broke apart.

I pulled the door open.

Mia stumbled out, shaking so violently her teeth rattled together. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks streaked with tears, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to hold in the cold.

She collapsed against me, her body icy.