I knew something was wrong the second he opened the door.

The woman standing on the doorstep didn’t smile. She didn’t offer pleasantries. Just held up her ID with a clipped, practiced motion.

“Amanda Bailey. Cheltenham CPS.” Her tone was all business. “We received a mandated report from St. Margaret’s Primary. I need to speak to you and your wife. Now.”

I didn’t blink, but the slow thud of my pulse my his ears like a warning bell.

You appeared behind me, still drying your hands on a kitchen towel. “Is there a problem?”

The woman glanced down at her clipboard, flipping a page. “Your daughter made a statement at school that raised serious red flags.”

I stepped aside, letting her in, my eyes never leaving her.

“Would you mind if I spoke to Alaska directly?” the woman asked.

“No,” I said, too quickly. Your hand brushed against mine. “We’d like to know what this is about first.”

She nodded once, then read — word for word — from the teacher’s written report:

“My daddy keeps bad men in the basement. He makes them disappear when they don’t listen. Sometimes they scream, but he tells me not to be scared.”

The room went still.

My stomach turned to stone. I felt your body shift slightly beside him — not fear. Rage.

“She’s five,” you said tightly. “She’s got an overactive imagination.”

The social worker looked up from her notes, and this time, her smile was laced with steel. “Children don’t invent things like that out of nowhere. Especially not with that kind of detail.”

My jaw clenched. “Are we being accused of something?”

“You’re being investigated,” she replied, calm as anything. “That includes home visits, school follow-ups, and interviews with your daughter—alone. And if there’s even a hint of truth in what she said, we will involve the police.”

She stood. “You’ll be hearing from us again. Soon.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut.

I stood motionless, the weight of the moment sinking in like cement in his chest.

Our daughter could get taken away from us.