Through the peephole I saw my parents on the porch, drenched and stubborn. Mom cradled the baby against her coat; Dad’s jaw was set in the way that once made me eight years old again.
“Karen, open up,” Dad called. “We’re not leaving.”
I rested my forehead against the cool wood, counted to five, and felt the old reflex flare—the one that made me appease before I even knew what I wanted. Then I stepped back, lifted my phone, and dialed.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“There isn’t an emergency,” I said, surprised at how steady I sounded. “There are two people on my porch who have been told not to contact me. I have a court case pending with their daughter. I’d like an officer to ask them to leave.”
By the time the cruiser slid to the curb, the baby had started to fuss. Mom rocked him, whispering, eyes red. Dad kept his gaze on the door like he could force it open with will alone. The officers were kind, professional. They listened; they nodded; they walked my parents down the steps. Dad tried arguing policy. Mom begged. I stood behind the glass and didn’t move. It wasn’t strength so much as a failure of muscle memory. The bridge that used to lower at the first sign of tears didn’t budge.