I swung my father’s truck around in the crushed gravel of the driveway and drove Sadie straight to his white Cape Cod house on Elm Street.

Walter ladled yellow broth and shredded chicken into three heavy ceramic bowls on the kitchen table.

Next to his spoon he set a yellow legal pad crammed with dense, square handwriting that filled every line from one margin to the other.

Sadie sat tucked into the corner bench, bundled in a dark blue wool blanket, her chin resting on her jacket sleeve.

“The responding officer filed a standard domestic disturbance report,” my father said, laying the stainless ladle down with a sharp click on the stovetop.