She wasn’t alone.

From the backseat she dragged a small, stumbling figure. Mateo, my six-year-old brother, in pajamas two sizes too small, his face streaked with dirt and fresh tears.

Lydia wore the exact expression she reserved for parent-teacher conferences and church socials — the long-suffering, endlessly sacrificing mother. The perfect victim.

She burst through the front door, pushing past the officers, her eyes scanning until they locked onto me.

“Savannah!” she wailed, a sound so perfectly pitched with artificial anguish it turned my stomach.

Before I could back away she lunged, dragging Mateo with her, and wrapped me in a suffocating embrace. There was no warmth in it. Only cheap floral perfume and unwashed laundry.