The Call

Through various stages of destruction, I watched my sister’s addiction grow—to the point that she hit our Nana.

An unexpected phone call came at work from a police officer I knew from high school:

“Kris, can you get here now? It’s bad. Your sister hit your Nana. The whole force is looking for her.”

The emergencies never stopped. My job knew things weren’t great in my life and offered me flexibility, trusting I’d still meet the bottom line. When the call came, I headed out—a short drive away—slipping into autopilot. I became the emergency representative, ready for anything, adrenaline leading the way.

I arrived to find my Nana sitting, confused, in her son’s apartment—not her own. Upstairs, I saw the perforated hole in the wall above her bed, right where her head would have rested. My sister had hit the phone off her head and into the wall.

My heart sank. Nana—not in her own bed. Not in her own home. Her sanctuary—the place she stewarded—violated. Just watching her cooking show, a simple kindness, and yet she was brutalized in the very space that should have been safe.

I moved quickly, clearing out every trace of her and her husband’s things. Just get her stuff out—don’t leave Nana any reason for reentry. I knew my sister’s manipulation tactics. I knew my Nana’s soft heart. I just wanted to control whatever I could, to stop the next fallout before it started.

Knowing my mother’s responses, I feared she might engage. I hoped this time the new information would be enough—for her to play it safe, keep the door locked, and rely on the police who were searching and waiting outside.

I told them not to open the door under any circumstances. After locking things up tight, I left, going to a friend’s house to decompress.

When the next call came in, my sister had come back.
My mother opened the door—brazen and overconfident. She engaged, behaving like her younger, stronger self—only to be humbled as her own daughter latched on, dragging her down the stairs.

I arrived just as the EMTs were ushering her away, her neck unprotected, her back broken. The sight struck me hard—helplessness and disbelief crashing over me all at once.

I couldn’t rewind it. Couldn’t take back leaving. Couldn’t change the fact that she opened the door, like she always did, thinking she was strong enough to overpower every situation—always to her own demise.

And now… was she even going to walk again? How bad was this?

My sister stood in handcuffs next to the police car, pleading her innocence. I knew she’d end up walking away with less punishment than she deserved. I asked them to uncuff her, to let me handle it within the family. They didn’t. She went to city jail, then county, then court.

And in the end, all charges were dropped.
Nothing changed—except us.