The war was over.

But as I looked at little Mateo, crying silently into Aunt Helena’s sweater, I understood a terrifying truth.

The war was over. The wreckage was left entirely to me.

The months that followed were a hurricane of sterile waiting rooms, social workers with clipboards, and endless court dates.

The state of Iowa is not kind to parents who lock infants in soiled cribs to go hunt down their teenage runaway.