I imagined saying something cruel enough to hurt Caroline the way her words had hurt our daughter.
Then I felt Ella’s fingers clutch the back of my jacket.
A child learns what safety means from the adult who stays steady while the room tries to explode.
“All right,” I said.
I stepped around my wife and carried Ella outside.
Across the street, Margaret Ellis stood behind her curtains with one hand lifted to her mouth.
Margaret had been our neighbor for six years.
She was a retired elementary school librarian who remembered birthdays, returned trash cans after storms, and left garden tomatoes on our porch every July.
Ella trusted her because Margaret never spoke to children as though their words were less important.
That night, Margaret did not wave.
