My mother’s voice came through the phone.
I looked toward the hallway once more.
Then I asked the only question that mattered to me.
“You knew they had nowhere to go. Why did you close the door?”
Hours earlier, I had believed my children were safe.
That was the part my mind kept returning to.
I hadn’t left them somewhere unfamiliar because I thought they would be alone.
I took them to my parents’ house.
Grandma.
Grandpa.
Christmas.
There are certain words that are supposed to mean you don’t need to be afraid.
I told the girls to head inside.
I had to check on their father at the hospital.
That was all.
In my mind, the handoff had already happened.
I pictured warmth.
Food.
Christmas snacks.
Maybe television.
Whatever grandparents normally did with two little girls while their mother sat beside a hospital bed.
I didn’t know the front door had become the beginning of something else.
While I sat beside my husband, I listened to the machines around him.
The thin hospital blanket covered him.
My attention stayed on his condition.
I thought that was the emergency.
My phone changed that.
A man I didn’t know told me two little girls had been found outside.
One carrying the other.
Both needing help.
At first, the words sounded like somebody else’s tragedy.
Then he told me the older girl had provided my number.
My number.
That was when the world tilted.
My eight-year-old knew my phone number.
I had always been glad she did.
It was one of those practical things parents teach children because someday it might matter.
