My 7-year-old stays with my ex.

He glanced toward the house, calculating. “Put her down and let’s talk like adults.”

Instead, I pulled out my phone, hit record, and dialed 911.

His expression shifted when he heard the dispatcher answer. “You’re seriously doing this?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking with anger, not fear. “My child was locked in a shed. She’s freezing. I need officers and medical assistance.”

“Hang up,” he hissed. “You’re making me look bad.”

“You managed that yourself.”

Mia lifted her head slightly. “Daddy put the lock,” she whispered.

Daniel’s jaw clenched. “Mia, stop. You’re going to get me in trouble.”

The words made my stomach sink. That wasn’t concern. That was control.

I turned my body to shield her. “Don’t speak to her.”

I gave the dispatcher the address and added, “He’s here and trying to intimidate us.”

Daniel scoffed but stayed close, watching my phone like it was a threat.

“Does she have any injuries?” the dispatcher asked.

I looked at Mia’s hands—red at the fingertips. Her bare feet were dirty and blotchy from the cold.

“She’s very cold,” I said. “Her feet are bare. Please send an ambulance.”

“She wasn’t barefoot,” Daniel snapped. “She took her shoes off.”