“She hit Nora.”
Nora looked at Charlotte from under her eyelashes and took another bite of cracker.
My mother said, “She pushed. We tried talking to her, but she got mouthy.”
Mouthy.
That was the word she used for any child who still had enough self left to protest.
“We thought,” my mother continued, “a quick chat with the police would teach her behavior has consequences.”
The older officer’s face changed by one careful inch.
“Ma’am,” he said, “we don’t do behavioral chats with children this young. We respond because we have to. This is not what emergency services are for.”
My mother’s mouth tightened.
Not ashamed.
Annoyed.
That was the moment Charlotte finally looked at me.
Her whole face collapsed.
No screaming.
No dramatic reaching.
Just silent, broken crying, as if she had been told she was not allowed to make noise and believed it.
