My daughter called crying. Dad, mom’s boyfriend hit me. I was 800 km away. Then I heard him in the background. Tell your father he’s next if you don’t shut up. Dad, mom’s boyfriend hit me.
My daughter Emma’s voice came through my phone at 9:47 p.m. on a Tuesday in March 2024.
And it wasn’t her normal voice, not the bright 13-year-old who texted memes and complained about math homework. This voice was ragged, broken, soaked in tears that I could hear even through the cheap hotel Wi-Fi connection that kept cutting in and out. I was in a Hampton Inn in Thunder Bay, Ontario, 800 km from our home in Missaga on a work trip for the engineering firm where I’d been employed for 11 years, presenting pipeline safety protocols to a client who’d insisted on face-to-face meetings because they were old school that way.
Emma, sweetheart, what happened? I sat up so fast my laptop slid off the hotel bed, hitting the carpet with a thud that the people in the room below probably heard. My heart was already racing. That parental instinct that knows when something is deeply, fundamentally wrong. He Brad, mom’s boyfriend.
She was crying so hard I could barely understand her. He got mad because I didn’t do the dishes fast enough and he he pushed me against the wall and then he hit me across the face and then I heard him in the background. A male voice, loud and ugly, slurred slightly like he’d been drinking.
Tell your father he’s next if you don’t shut up about this. You hear me? He’s next. My blood turned to ice. Then to fire, then to something cold and sharp and focused that made my vision go crystal clear in a way it only does in moments of absolute crisis. Emma, are you safe right now? Right this second. My voice came out calmer than I felt.
The engineer in me taking over. Assess the situation. Identify the variables. Formulate a response. I’m in my room. He’s She sobbed again. That hitching sound kids make when they’re trying to breathe and cry at the same time. He’s gone to the kitchen. I can hear him. Mom’s with him. They’re talking. Lock your door right now.
Can you do that? I heard the click of her door lock engaging. Okay, it’s locked. Stay on the phone with me. Don’t hang up. My left thumb was already hitting 911 on my work phone. Yes, I carried two phones. Had since the divorce 3 years ago when Rachel and I had split custody, and I needed to be reachable at all times, while my right hand kept Emma on my personal cell, pressed to my ear.
Police came by earlier. Emma whispered. And that sentence made my stomach drop through the floor. About an hour ago. I called them the first time, but mom mom sent them away. She told them I was being dramatic. That I was acting out because of the divorce. That I was trying to get attention like like I learned it from you. Of course she did.
Of course Rachel would gaslight our daughter to protect her violent boyfriend. Of course she would use our custody battle, the one I’d lost partially because the judge thought I was too controlling and overly involved in Emma’s life against both of us. Is there a mark? Can you see where he hit you? I was talking to Emma while the 911 operator in Thunder Bay was asking me to state my emergency.
And I was trying to explain that my daughter was being assaulted 800 kilometers away. And I needed them to dispatch to an address in Missaga, which wasn’t even their jurisdiction. My cheek is red, really red. And my arm where he grabbed me. There’s like a handprint. It’s already turning purple. Her voice got smaller. It hurts, Dad. It really hurts.
I know, baby. I know. Listen to me. I need you to take photos right now. Use your phone. take pictures of your face, your arm, anywhere he touched you. Can you do that? I heard the camera click through the phone once, twice, three times. Then my phone buzzed with incoming images. Emma’s face, my beautiful daughter’s face with a red welt across her left cheek in the perfect shape of an adult’s hand.
Her arm showing a bruise already forming, four finger marks and a thumb like someone had grabbed her hard enough to leave an imprint in her skin. My vision went white around the edges. I had to close my eyes and count to three before I could function again. I forwarded the photos immediately to my lawyer, Jennifer Martinez, family law specialist, who I’d kept on retainer after the divorce because something in me had never trusted Rachel’s judgment in men.
To the Peele Regional Police non-emergency number to my own email, three different accounts, personal and work, and a backup Gmail I’d set up specifically for custody documentation, paper trail, backup, proof, evidence that couldn’t be disputed or deleted or explained away. Emma, is grandma nearby? Your mom’s mom? I was already pulling up contacts.
My fingers moving faster than my brain. She lives like 15 minutes away, but mom won’t let her in. Mom doesn’t even like when grandma calls me. Your mom doesn’t have a choice anymore. Stay on the phone. I called myex-mother-in-law, Margaret Chen, age 62, retired nurse, the only person in Rachel’s family who’d stayed in contact with me after the divorce because she’d told me privately that she thought Rachel was making poor choices and needed to grow up.
Margaret picked up on the second ring. David, it’s almost 10:00. Brad hit Emma. She’s locked in her room. Rachel sent the police away. I need you to go there right now. Force entry if you have to. Call for police backup if Rachel tries to stop you. Don’t let her gaslight Emma. Don’t let her minimize this. I’m sending you photos right now. Silence for 3 seconds.
Then Margaret’s voice sharp and clear. I’m getting my keys. I’m calling my sister to come with me as a witness. We’ll be there in 12 minutes. I merged the calls. Emma, Margaret, and my sister Jessica, who lived 20 minutes away and who I’d frantically texted to get to Rachel’s house now. Emma in danger. three-way call. All of us connected.
Emma able to hear her grandmother and aunt mobilizing. Able to hear that help was coming, that she wasn’t alone. I can hear grandma’s car, Emma whispered after what felt like hours, but was actually 9 minutes according to the call timer. She’s pulling into the driveway. Mom’s yelling at her through the window.
Stay in your room until grandma gets inside. Don’t open your door until you hear her voice right outside. I had been preparing for this for months, not consciously. I’d never wanted to believe Rachel would put Emma in actual danger. But little things had accumulated like evidence at a crime scene. Emma flinching when Brad’s name came up during our FaceTime calls.
Texts from Emma that sounded off too formal, like she was being monitored. A private investigator I’d hired 3 months ago. Michael Torres, 20 years experience, former Toronto police detective who dug into Brad Morrison’s background and found a history that made my hands shake. two domestic violence arrests, one conviction, a restraining order from an ex-girlfriend, probation terms he’d technically fulfilled, but had pushed right to the edge of violation.
I’d filed an emergency custody motion 3 weeks ago, quietly through Jennifer, a motion that cited concerns about Emma’s safety in her mother’s care and evidence of an unsuitable romantic partner with a criminal history being introduced into the child’s home environment. It had been sitting in the system waiting for a hearing date, waiting for evidence concrete enough that a judge couldn’t ignore it. That waiting ended tonight.
“Jennifer,” I said when my lawyer picked up. She’d given me her personal cell for emergencies exactly like this. “Now expedite the motion. My daughter was just assaulted by Rachel’s boyfriend. I have photos, timestamps, a recording of him threatening me. Police are on scene right now with my ex-mother-in-law forcing entry.
This is the emergency we needed. Give me 10 minutes,” Jennifer said. And I could hear her already moving. Keyboard clicking in the background. I’ll call Judge Morrison’s clerk. Yes, I know it’s late. This is exactly what emergency motions are for. I’ll get you a hearing tomorrow if possible. The next 30 minutes happened in fragments.
Margaret forcing her way into Rachel’s house with her sister Linda as backup. Both of them over 60, but apparently capable of intimidating Rachel into submission through sheer maternal authority. Emma unlocking her door when she heard her grandmother’s voice. Police. Peele Regional. two officers arriving because Margaret had called them from Rachel’s driveway, explaining there was a minor in danger and the mother was refusing access.
Brad Morrison getting arrested when the officers saw Emma’s injuries and ran his name and found the warrants and probation violations he’d accumulated in the past month that nobody had followed up on. Officer Sarah Chen, 15 years on the force domestic violence specialist, called me at 10:47 p.m. Mr.
Lawson, this is Officer Chen with Peele Regional Police. Your daughter Emma is safe. She’s with her grandmother and aunt. We’ve arrested Brad Morrison for assault on a minor and uttering threats. Your ex-wife, Rachel Lawson, is being investigated for failure to protect a minor and potentially filing a false police report.
What about his record? I asked, already knowing but needing to hear it confirmed by an official source. Two prior domestic violence arrests, one conviction from 2019, currently on probation, which he’s now violated. The crown attorney will be pushing for remand. He’s not getting bail, Mr. Lawson. Not with his history and these new charges.
That last sentence hit me like a wave of relief, so intense my knees went weak. I sat down on the hotel bed, still holding both phones. Emma, still on one line, breathing steadily now that her grandmother was with her. Jennifer called back at 11:03 p.m. Emergency custody hearing tomorrow. Well, today now technically 2 p.m. at the Bmpton courthouse.
Judge Sarah Morrison cleared her afternoon docket.Bring all evidence. Bring Emma if she’s willing to speak to the judge. Bring witnesses. I’ll handle the legal arguments, but I need you there. I was already packing. Threw my clothes into my suitcase without folding them. Laptop into its bag. Toiletries swept into a plastic shopping bag because I didn’t have time for organization.
Called my boss. Left a voicemail at 11:30 p.m. explaining there was a family emergency and I was driving back tonight and wouldn’t be at tomorrow’s final client meeting. Checked out of the Hampton Inn at 11:47 p.m. The night clerk looking concerned as I threw my key card on the counter and basically ran to my car. Drove through the night. 8 hours.
Honda Accord 2019 model 180,000 km. Needed an oil change. I’d been putting off. Coffee from a Tim Hortons at midnight. Another at 2:00 a.m. Another at 4:00 a.m. Emma on the phone every hour just to hear her voice to know she was okay to remind her I was coming. Margaret texting updates. Emma’s injuries photographed by police.
Medical examination scheduled for the morning. Victim services coordinator assigned. Rachel locked in her bedroom and refusing to come out or speak to anyone.
