That night, I cleaned until my hands hurt. Not because the house was dirty. Because fear needs something to do.
The next afternoon, a caseworker named Linda Morrison arrived at four o’clock sharp. Tired eyes. Worn leather bag. Professional kindness. She walked through our living room, looked at the photographs on the walls, Ellie’s school backpack by the door, the little lavender bedroom with drawings taped crookedly along one wall.
Then she sat at my kitchen table. “I received a report,” she said. “I need to ask some questions.”
I answered every one. My work schedule. School pickup. Childcare. Meals. Doctors. Neighbors. Emergency contacts.
Then Linda spoke to Ellie in the living room. I sat where Ellie could see me, but not close enough to coach.
“Do you feel safe at home?” Linda asked.
“Yes.”
“Does your dad take good care of you?”
“Yes.”
“Does he ever hurt you?”
Ellie looked confused. “No. Daddy doesn’t do that.”
When Linda asked if Ellie was afraid of me, Ellie’s forehead wrinkled. “No. I’m afraid when grown-ups say mean things.”
Linda looked at her for a moment. Then wrote something down.
Three days later, Dana called. “CPS closed the case. Linda’s report is excellent. She wrote that Ellie is healthy, bonded to you, and shows no signs of neglect or fear. Barbara’s allegations were baseless.”
I sat down because my knees suddenly did not trust themselves.
The full hearing came on a Friday morning. This time, the courtroom had more people. Some local observers. A reporter from the town paper. Tom and Jennifer in the back row, both looking like they wished chairs could swallow them.