Her voice was tiny, but clear.
“Grandma told Nora if she cried and said I hurt her, you would have to keep giving Aunt Kendra money because the police would think I’m bad.”
Kendra’s face emptied.
My mother said, “That is enough.”
It was the wrong sentence.
Not “That is not true.”
Not “I would never.”
Enough.
My phone kept recording.
I looked at Kendra.
“Open the folder.”
“No.”
“Open it, or leave my porch.”
My mother stepped forward.
“You are not in charge here.”
For the first time in my life, I believed the opposite.
“I am at my house,” I said. “I am Charlotte’s mother. I pay my own bills. I am exactly in charge here.”
Kendra’s hand trembled around the folder.
The corner slipped open.
I saw the top page.
Petition for emergency guardianship.
Charlotte’s name was typed under minor child.
Mine was typed under respondent.
