My mother finally shifted her feet, her eyes darting toward the hallway.

She gripped her handbag tighter, pulling it against her ribs like a shield.

“I should leave,” she said, her voice losing a bit of its icy composure.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said, standing up just enough to block the kitchen doorway.

“Step aside, Jake,” she commanded, her old authority returning.

“No.”

“I am your mother.”

“And she is my wife,” I said, pointing down at Megan.

The red and blue lights began to flash against the kitchen ceiling, cutting through the dim apartment.

Heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden stairs of the building.

A loud, aggressive knock shook our front door.

“Chicago Police and Fire! Open up!” a man’s voice boomed.

“In here!” I yelled back. “The door is open!”

The front door burst open, and three people rushed into the small apartment.

Two paramedics carrying heavy orange medical bags pushed past me into the kitchen.

A police officer stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room.

“What happened here?” the officer asked, his hand resting near his belt.