I was hesitant, but her therapist had been clear that Maya needed to reclaim some sense of agency, needed not to be hidden away and protected into further powerlessness.

So I brought her, holding my hand.

We arrived at six.

Evelyn opened the door with a practiced, welcoming smile, but when she saw Ryan, and Laura, and me, all standing on her porch with Maya’s hand in mine, her expression went cold.

“Maya, go to your room,” she ordered, instantly.

Maya did not budge.

“Maya, I am speaking to you!” And I stepped in front of my daughter.

“Don’t you ever speak to her like that again,” I said.