My 7-year-old stays with my ex.

I stared at him. “Then where are they?”

He had no answer.

In the porch light, I noticed fresh scratches around the shed latch—tiny nail marks carved into the wood.

“Did you try to get out?” I asked Mia gently.

She nodded. “I banged on the door, but the TV was loud.”

Memories of Daniel’s temper from our marriage flooded back—the silent punishments, the gaslighting, the “you’re too sensitive.”

I had convinced myself he’d never treat Mia that way.

I had been wrong.

Sirens grew louder. Daniel straightened his shoulders, putting on his “reasonable father” mask.

Two officers entered the yard. A woman with a body cam stepped forward first. “Ma’am, did you call?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s my daughter. She was locked in the shed.”

Daniel jumped in immediately. “Officer, she’s trespassing. Mia ran outside during a tantrum. I told her to sit in the shed for a minute. It wasn’t locked.”

The officer glanced at the broken padlock in the grass, then at the brick, then at Mia’s bare feet.

“Sir,” she said evenly, “we’ll hear from you shortly.”

A paramedic wrapped Mia in a blanket. She clutched it like it was life itself.

Another officer crouched to Mia’s level. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Mia looked at Daniel, then back at the officer. “I spilled juice. Daddy said I was lying. He put me in the shed and said I could come out when I told the truth.”

“That’s not—” Daniel started.

“Sir,” the officer interrupted, raising a hand. “Do not interrupt.”

I kept recording, even though my hands trembled.