My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.

Because of the sick conviction that they know who is ruining the lives of others.

Emma entered specialized therapy.

At first he drew baby bottles with black clouds on top.

Then he drew the giant grandmother and the twins as two small stars far away from the house.

One day she drew something that made me sit down on the floor of the office so I wouldn’t fall: me, with a broken forehead, standing in front of two little white boxes while she screamed.

That was the memory I carried of the most horrible morning of our lives.

Not my hands, not the pastor, not the police.