“Yes?”
“We received a call about a possible child-related issue at this address. I just need to check that everyone is safe.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of issue?”
Before he could answer, Tyler appeared behind me.
“I called!”
I turned very slowly.
My son marched toward us holding an old cell phone.
It was a phone I kept charged for one specific reason.
If I ever fainted, got hurt, or something serious happened while we were alone, Tyler knew he could use it to call for help.
Apparently, he had developed his own interpretation of “serious.”
“My mom is being really mean,” he announced. “She won’t give me ice cream.”
I closed my eyes.
My child had called the police over dessert.
“I am so sorry,” I told the officer. “I never imagined he would use the phone for something like this.”
Tyler looked offended.
“I’m seven.”
“Thank you for reminding us.”
I expected the officer to laugh.
He didn’t.
His nameplate said BRUCE.
Officer Bruce looked at Tyler, then back at me.
“Would you mind if I ask him a few questions?”
“Please do.”
At that point, I was hoping an actual police officer might succeed where motherhood had failed and explain that chocolate ice cream was not a constitutional right.
Officer Bruce crouched slightly so he was closer to Tyler’s height.
“Did your mom hurt you?”
Tyler immediately stopped acting dramatic.
“No.”
“Are you scared of her?”
“No. She’s my mom.”
“Do you have food in the house?”
Tyler pointed toward the kitchen.
“She’s literally making spaghetti.”
The smell of garlic and tomato sauce had already reached the hallway.
“Does she stop you from eating when you’re hungry?”
“No.”
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