Emma. My granddaughter. Seven years old, with her mother’s bright eyes and my stubborn chin.
A cold dread coiled in my gut. “Where is Emma right now?”
“With them.” Anna’s voice dropped an octave, becoming something feral and barely human. A sound of absolute, maternal despair. “He said a homeless mother has no rights. He took my baby, Dad.”
I didn’t say another word. I stood up, the joints in my knees popping, and reached down to help her stand. She weighed almost nothing, a ghost of the vibrant woman she had been a year ago. I guided her to my truck, buckled her in, and turned the heater on full blast.
When we got to my house—the quiet suburban home where she had grown up—I led her to the bathroom. She stayed in the shower for an hour, scrubbing her skin until it was red, staying under the spray long after the hot water tank had run empty. While she washed away the alleyway, I stood in the kitchen and made tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Comfort food.
