I moved between them.
“Do not take one more step toward either child,” I said.
Michael’s voice came through the speaker, low and shaken.
“Mom?”
Sarah’s face folded into something pathetic.
“Michael, he’s confused. Emily scared him. She attacked me.”
I took a photo then.
Not of Sarah.
Of the paper plate.
Of the hot dog.
Of the towel.
Of the timestamp on my call log.
Of Olivia’s cheek, close enough to document the mark but not so close that I would ever feel like I had used my child’s pain for a performance.
I opened the notes app and wrote the time.
1:37 p.m., heard slap.
1:42 p.m., benefits cancellation call.
2:06 p.m., Michael called.
2:09 p.m., Sarah sent cropped cheek photo.
Then I saved it.
People think breaking points are messy because the feelings are messy.
Sometimes they are not.
Sometimes the feeling is fire, but the action becomes paperwork.
