I spent the night believing my mother had finally chosen my stepfather over me. Then a police officer called and revealed why she had been desperate to get me out.
“Have you heard what happened at your house today?”
Officer Miller’s voice was calm, but something about it made my stomach drop.
“No.”
There was a pause.
“You need to get here as soon as possible.”
I grabbed my jacket.
“What happened?”
“Are you somewhere safe right now?”
That was when I knew it was bad.
“I’m at work.”
“Stay there until someone can pick you up.”
“My mom is there. Is she okay?”
Another pause.
“She’s alive.”
Alive.
Not fine. Not okay.
Alive.
I sat down hard on a crate in the grocery store stockroom.
“What happened?”
“We’ll explain when you get here.”
My name is Ashley. I’m 18.
The night before that phone call, my mother had thrown me out of our house with a suitcase and refused to tell me why.
