Hearing my name in that sterile, official tone felt like an accusation rather than a question.

Helena straightened her spine, seeming to grow an inch. “She is here, yes. She is my niece.”

The female officer — her name tag read Davis — shifted her weight. She lowered her gaze briefly, then looked me straight in the eye with a professional, fiercely curious expression.

“Your mother filed an official missing persons report this morning, Savannah. She claimed you left home without permission. You’re a minor.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

A missing persons report. The audacity of it made me want to laugh and cry at once. The woman currently playing the frantic, bereft mother had spent the last eight years leaving me alone to manage six other children while I tried, and failed, to finish my homework.

I was the one changing foul-smelling diapers at three in the morning. I was the one heating formula on a stove that barely worked, scraping meals together out of government cheese and stale bread, while my classmates were learning to drive and going to Friday night football games.

My safety had never once been a priority for her. Not until her unpaid nanny dared to walk out the front door.

“I didn’t run away,” I finally managed, my voice cracking under the weight of my exhaustion. “I walked here. I called my aunt myself. I left because… because I had to.”

The officers exchanged a brief, unreadable glance. Helena stepped back, pulling the door wider so the cool air could push the tension out of the room.

“She is not in any danger here, Officers. But she is drained. She has been raising her siblings single-handedly for years. Her mother uses her as slave labor.”

The male officer frowned, a crease forming between his brows. “Ma’am, we appreciate that, but we still need to speak with the minor directly to assess the situation.