Police sirens shattered our quiet afternoon as officers approached my 8-year-old daughter on our porch. Lily looked up with confused, frightened eyes, her bald head shining from chemotherapy treatments. Daddy, are they here because I look scary without hair? Our HOA president had called cops on my cancer patient.
The sound of sirens pierced through our quiet Tuesday afternoon like a knife through my heart. I was in the kitchen making my 8-year-old daughter Lily’s favorite chicken noodle soup. The only thing she could keep down these days after her morning chemotherapy session when I heard the unmistakable sound of police cars pulling into our driveway.
My blood ran cold. Not because I was afraid of police. After 22 years as a senior officer and the last five as police captain of our district, but because I knew exactly why they were here. I had been dreading this moment for weeks. Ever since our HOA president Karen Morrison had escalated her harassment campaign against my cancer-stricken daughter, and I knew my little girl was about to face something no child battling leukemia should ever have to endure.
You see, 3 months ago, when Lily first lost her beautiful auburn curls to chemotherapy, I thought the hardest part of our cancer journey was behind us. We’d survived the devastating diagnosis, the terrifying first treatments, the nights I held her while she threw up from the poison they were putting in her tiny body to save her life.
