I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys and left immediately.

Thirty minutes later, I walked into the house and froze. Denise stood in the kitchen, humming softly as she swept. On the floor at her feet was a pile of long, golden hair.

“Oh, you’re back,” she said calmly. “Her hair was too wild. I took care of it.”

I felt like the air had left my lungs.

From down the hallway, I heard Theresa crying again. Denise kept talking—about her upcoming wedding, about family photos, about how important appearances were. She said my daughter needed to look “neat” and “presentable.”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue.

I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures. The hair on the floor. The scissors on the counter. Theresa’s scrunchie discarded nearby.

“What are you doing?” Denise asked, unsettled for the first time.

“Documenting,” I said.