They wedged me into the back of the cruiser, vinyl cold through my pajama pants, and the young officer in the front kept glancing at me in the rearview like he’d accidentally arrested a ghost. I asked for my phone, not a lawyer. Habit, I guess. I scrolled past texts from my husband and the lactation consultant and opened the one app that had tracked every sacrifice of my postpartum life. There it was: 1:58 a.m. to 2:24 a.m., four and a half ounces, GPS dot glowing over my mother’s roof. When the sergeant saw it, his jaw locked; the hit‑and‑run wasn’t just property damage—it was a teenager’s blood on Knoxville Avenue. Outside, voices rose, my sister’s high and thin, my mother’s low and drilling. By the time they uncuffed me, my wrists were ringed in red and Kenzie was the one in the backseat, mascara sluicing down her face, our mother spitting that I’d destroyed everyth… Continues…
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