Two hours later, Leo was finally sleeping. The heavy IV pain medication had knocked him out, his small chest rising and falling smoothly with the help of a nasal cannula delivering pure oxygen. I sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside his hospital bed, holding his small, uninjured left hand, watching the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.
The heavy door to the hospital room opened. Two uniformed police officers walked in, accompanied by a woman holding a clipboard, identifying herself as a CPS social worker.
They took my statement. I told them everything. I told them about Ryan’s history of unchecked aggression. I detailed Carla’s smirking apathy. I described my father ignoring the screams to watch golf. And I explicitly detailed how my mother physically assaulted me to steal my phone, prioritizing her nephew’s athletic reputation over her grandson’s life.
The officers wrote furiously in their notepads. The social worker looked sickened.
As they turned to leave, the lead officer paused with his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at me, his expression grave but sympathetic.
“Ma’am,” the officer said, “we’ve got everything we need here. We are dispatching two units to your parents’ address right now to interview the nephew, seize the stolen phone, and interrogate the adults present. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to attempt contact with them first? To give them a heads up?”
I looked at my son lying in the hospital bed, his fragile body wrapped in bandages.
“I’m sure,” I replied, my voice steady. “Let them be surprised.”
