Their Sister, Not Their Mother

“No! Wait!” Lydia shrieked, lunging toward her. “You don’t understand, they’re safe! The oven is off!”

The male officer caught her by the arms, effortlessly. “Sit down on the couch, Mrs. Miller. Do not move.”

I stood there, and the weight of sixteen years suddenly felt lighter — shifting off my shoulders and onto the crushing gears of the law. I looked at Mateo, staring at our mother with wide, terrified eyes.

I wanted to comfort him.

Before I could take a step, the heavy rumble of a diesel engine shook the windows.

A muddy work truck pulled up onto the grass behind the cruisers. The door swung open and my father, Marcus, stepped out, still in his steel-toed boots and hard hat, a scowl carved so deep into his weathered face it looked like stone.