It was the same look she used to give me when I was a boy, right before she locked me in the dark pantry.

It was a look that demanded absolute submission.

“Jake,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with a threat.

“Tell this officer that I am your mother.”

“Tell him you made a mistake.”

“Tell him we don’t need his help.”

“No,” I said, my voice shaking.

“I’m not doing that anymore.”

“You took her medicine.”

“You knew she needed it.”

“She’s seven months pregnant, Ma.”

My mother let out a short, harsh laugh.

“She’s a weak girl, Jake.”

“She was never right for you.”

“She can’t even carry a child properly without falling apart.”

The officer stepped between us, cutting off her line of sight.

“The bag, ma’am,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Slowly, deliberately, my mother let the strap slide down her arm.

She dropped the bag onto the laminate counter with a heavy thud.

The second officer, who had been waiting by the door, stepped forward.

He unzipped the main compartment.