My 7-year-old stays with my ex.

“I was stuck,” she cried. “I couldn’t get out.”

Over her shoulder, the back door of the house swung open.

My ex-husband, Daniel Carter, stepped onto the porch, blinking as if I’d just interrupted his evening.

“What are you doing here?” he called out.

I held Mia closer.

“I’m taking my daughter,” I said, my voice low and unfamiliar. “And I’m calling the police.”

Daniel jumped off the porch and walked toward us, hands raised in that staged, harmless gesture.

“Claire, wait. This is being blown out of proportion.”

I adjusted Mia on my hip. She clung to me, trembling so hard I could feel it through my coat.

“Stay back,” I warned. “You locked her in there.”
“I didn’t lock her in,” he fired back. “She went in herself. She was being dramatic. I told her to cool off.”

“She called me sobbing,” I said. “She said it was freezing and completely dark.”

“Kids exaggerate,” he replied. “She was throwing a tantrum. I needed a minute.”

“A minute?” My voice rose. “It’s nearly ten at night.”