“She threw a heavy cast-iron skillet at my four-year-old,” I said.

“It slipped,” my mother insisted, her heavy silver bangle clicking as she tightened her grip on my sweater.

“It was greasy, and it slid right out of her hand.

If you walk into that emergency room repeating what a six-year-old said, you’ll rip this whole family apart.”

“I’m getting in the ambulance, Mom.”

“Think about what you’re doing,” my mother said, planting herself right between my feet and the back step of the ambulance.

“Your father has thirty-five years of service to celebrate next month.