The living room felt like it was plunging underwater. Mateo’s sniffling seemed miles away as I stared at the notebook swinging from my mother’s fingers.

That notebook was my sanctuary. It was where I documented the bruised ribs from when she pushed me down the stairs for forgetting to buy milk. It was where I tracked the exact hours I spent awake with the babies — a desperate attempt to prove to myself I wasn’t losing my mind.

“Give that back,” I demanded, stepping forward. My voice was a hollow echo. “That’s private.”

“It’s evidence,” Lydia countered, pulling it out of reach. She turned to Officer Davis, her face a perfect picture of maternal heartbreak. “I was looking for her this morning.

I stripped her bed, worried sick, and I found this. Officers, she isn’t running from chores. She is deeply disturbed. I fear for the safety of my younger children.”

The male officer took the notebook. “What exactly does it say, ma’am?”