He told me child protective services had been notified.
That was automatic.
Anthony was furious about it.
He called while I was standing in the kitchen.
I answered.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Taking care of Skyla.”
“We are her parents.”
“Then you should have been parenting.”
“We made arrangements.”
“What arrangements?”
“Mrs. Patterson.”
“She was told your cousin was staying overnight.”
Silence.
Then.
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Patterson.”
Anthony swore.
I turned on the recorder again.
“Why did you tell her that?”
“We thought Natalie’s cousin might come by.”
“Might?”
“Yes.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Was she ever actually supposed to stay?”
Anthony hesitated.
That was enough.
“Dad.”
“No.”
“Answer.”
“This is none of your business.”
“I am standing in your house with an eight-year-old child you left alone.”
“It is very much my business now.”
“She’s mature.”
“She’s eight.”
“She knows how to call 911.”
“So your safety plan was that your third grader could call emergency services if something happened?”
He said nothing.
I continued.
“What if she had an asthma attack?”
“She has an inhaler.”
“What if the house caught fire?”
“She knows how to get out.”
“What if someone broke in?”
“We have an alarm.”
“What if she panicked?”
“She had Mrs. Patterson.”
“The woman you lied to?”
Anthony exhaled.
“You’re making this worse.”
“No.”
“I am documenting what already happened.”
He went quiet.
That word mattered.
Documenting.
He knew my career.
He knew what I meant.
“Dad.”
