I’ve been a cop for over a decade, and this call still haunts me. The girl opened the door in a stained nightgown, barefoot, holding a cracked tablet. “Mommy’s sleeping,” she whispered. The house smelled like rot; dishes piled high, diapers overflowing. But when we opened the bedroom door and saw what was on the bed… we lost it. We pulled back the bedsheets and what we found underneath made the youngest officer run outside and throw up.
We stood outside the house, my hand poised to knock, but the screams of cartoons from within caught our attention. Every knock echoed strangely as if somehow swallowed by the chaos inside. Officer Jenny gave me a concerned look, her brows knitted tightly. We waited a few tense moments, exchanging glances, and could hear more cartoon voices blaring, then footsteps pattered closer. Whoever was about to answer, I hoped they could explain this.
The door creaked open and there she stood—small, eyes wide, taking us in like she was seeing cops in full gear for the first time. She clutched her tablet like a lifeline, the edges cracked, beeping every few moments. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and relief, like maybe a part of her had been hoping for help. Before we could say much, she pointed back inside, words tumbling out nervously. “Mommy’s asleep.”