Then, on a humid Thursday afternoon, three days before graduation, there was a sharp, authoritative knock on our apartment door.
I opened it to find a severe-looking woman in a grey suit, holding a clipboard.
“Mrs. Miller? I’m Ms. Higgins with Child Protective Services. We received an anonymous tip regarding the living conditions and welfare of the infant, Lily Miller. I’m here to inspect the premises.”
My blood ran cold. Eleanor Harrington had just escalated the war.
Chapter 4: The Crucible of the Closet
Ms. Higgins stepped into our small apartment, her eyes scanning the worn carpet, the peeling paint on the ceiling, and the mismatched furniture with clinical detachment. Every click of her pen against her clipboard sounded like a judge’s gavel.
“The report stated that the infant is residing in a closet,” Ms. Higgins noted, not making eye contact as she walked toward the hallway.
