My daughter was leaning against the doorframe leading to the kitchen. She looked so thin, her collarbones protruding sharply against her stained t-shirt. Her once-lustrous brown hair was dull and matted, pulled back into a messy bun. She took a long, slow drag from a cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling, mingling the scent of tobacco with the overpowering gasoline fumes.

“Lisa,” I gasped, the word scraping my throat. “Lisa, baby, please. Help me. He’s going to kill me.”

I waited for the spark of recognition. I waited for the mother-daughter bond, that primal connection that I had felt the moment they placed her pink, squalling body on my chest thirty years ago. I waited for the girl I had nursed through chickenpox, the girl I had worked double shifts to put through nursing school, to wake up.

Lisa flicked the ash onto the hardwood floor. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look angry. She looked bored.

“Just sign it, Mom,” she said. Her voice was flat, a dead thing devoid of any moisture or emotion. “Don’t make him mad. You know how he gets when he’s waiting for a fix.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The betrayal hit me harder than Travis’s fist ever could. It was a physical blow to the chest, stealing the air from my lungs more effectively than the fumes.

“He’s pouring gasoline in our house, Lisa!” I cried out, desperation cracking my voice. “He’s your husband! He’s threatening to burn your mother alive!”