How a mother’s protective instincts became a force for accountability when her family abandoned her injured child
The Illusion of Family
My name is Elise, and before that terrible day in November, I had lived thirty-two years believing that family meant unconditional love and protection. I had built my adult life around the assumption that blood ties created bonds that could weather any storm, that parents and siblings would always choose love over convenience, and that children in our family would always be safe from harm within our circle.
Those beliefs were not just naive—they were dangerous. They had blinded me to patterns of favoritism, cruelty, and moral bankruptcy that had been developing in my family for years. They had made me complicit in exposing my innocent daughter to people who were incapable of the basic empathy required to protect a child.
The story I’m about to tell you shattered every illusion I had about family, forced me to confront uncomfortable truths about the people I had loved and trusted, and ultimately transformed me from someone who kept the peace at any cost into someone who would fight for justice regardless of the consequences.
My daughter Nora was four years old when this happened—a bright, gentle soul who approached the world with the kind of trusting optimism that only children possess. She had inherited my curiosity and my husband David’s calm temperament, creating a personality that was both engaging and easy to overlook in a family that prized dramatic behavior and attention-seeking above kindness and authenticity.
The family dynamics that would prove so devastating had been building for years, but I had consistently chosen to minimize their significance rather than confront their implications. My sister Kendra had always been the golden child—beautiful, charming, and capable of convincing our parents that her failures were always someone else’s fault. Her daughter Madison, now thirteen, had been raised with the same sense of entitlement and lack of accountability that characterized Kendra’s approach to life.
The Golden Child Legacy
Growing up as Kendra’s younger sister had taught me early that peace was more valuable than fairness, that challenging unfair treatment only made things worse, and that the best strategy for survival was to be quietly competent while drawing as little attention as possible to inequitable treatment. These lessons had served me well as a child, but as an adult with my own daughter, they had become barriers to protecting the person who mattered most.
Kendra had always been everything our parents valued—outgoing, confident, and skilled at making herself the center of attention. She had been the homecoming queen, the one who dated the captain of the football team, the daughter who brought home dramatic stories that made family dinners feel like episodes of a soap opera. Her successes were celebrated extensively, while her failures were explained away as the result of bad luck or other people’s inadequacies.
I, by contrast, had been the steady one—good grades without drama, helpful around the house without being asked, reliable and responsible in ways that generated appreciation but never the kind of enthusiastic celebration that Kendra’s achievements received. My parents loved me, but their love felt conditional on my continued role as the easy child who never caused problems or demanded too much attention.
When Kendra became pregnant at nineteen with Madison, the family rallied around her with the kind of support that reinforced her position as the favored daughter. Madison’s father disappeared before the birth, but our parents stepped in to provide both emotional and financial support that allowed Kendra to complete college and establish her real estate career. Madison became the cherished granddaughter who could do no wrong, showered with gifts and attention that created a sense of specialness that was never challenged by consequences for poor behavior.
My own marriage to David at twenty-five and Nora’s birth three years later should have been occasions for celebration and renewed family bonds. But instead, they seemed to highlight how differently our children were treated within the family hierarchy. Madison remained the golden grandchild whose every achievement was documented and celebrated, while Nora was often an afterthought whose milestones were acknowledged politely but without enthusiasm.
The Pattern of Neglect
The differences in treatment were subtle but persistent, creating a pattern that I rationalized rather than confronted because acknowledging it would have required difficult conversations that I wasn’t prepared to have. When Madison started kindergarten, my parents attended every school event and posted countless photos on social media celebrating her academic and social achievements. When Nora reached the same milestones, their interest was polite but minimal, and their attendance at her events was sporadic and usually brief.
Birthday celebrations provided the most obvious examples of the disparity. Madison’s parties were elaborate productions with professional decorations, expensive gifts, and guest lists that included extended family and friends. Nora’s birthdays were smaller, quieter affairs that often felt like obligations rather than celebrations. The gifts she received were thoughtful but modest, and the attention she received was warm but brief.
Madison had learned to expect this preferential treatment as her natural right, and she had developed the kind of entitled attitude that comes from never being held accountable for selfish or cruel behavior. When she was eight, she had deliberately broken Nora’s favorite toy during a family gathering, claiming it was an accident despite multiple witnesses who had seen her throw it against the wall in frustration. The incident was dismissed as typical cousin rivalry, and Madison faced no consequences for her deliberately destructive behavior.
Similar incidents had occurred regularly over the years, each one reinforcing Madison’s belief that she could treat Nora poorly without facing any meaningful repercussions. She would take toys without asking, interrupt Nora’s conversations with adults, and make cutting remarks about Nora’s clothes or interests that left my daughter confused and hurt. Each time I tried to address these behaviors, I was told that I was being oversensitive, that cousin rivalry was normal, and that Madison was just expressing her personality.
The adults in the family had developed an elaborate system of excuses and justifications that protected Madison from accountability while teaching Nora that her feelings and rights were less important than maintaining family harmony. I had become complicit in this system by choosing not to make waves, by prioritizing my relationships with my parents and sister over my daughter’s need for protection and advocacy.
The Birthday Gathering
My father’s sixty-fifth birthday party should have been a joyful celebration of a man who had worked hard his entire life and deserved recognition for his achievements as a father and business owner. I had looked forward to the gathering as an opportunity for Nora to spend time with her grandparents and cousin in a setting that would hopefully generate positive memories and strengthen family bonds.
Nora had dressed carefully for the occasion, choosing her favorite pink dress with unicorns and asking me to braid her hair in the special style she reserved for important events. Her excitement about seeing her family was genuine and infectious, and I felt guilty for the apprehension that accompanied my own preparations for the gathering.
The warning signs were immediate and unmistakable, but I ignored them in favor of hope that things would be different this time. Madison’s reaction to our arrival was dismissive and hostile, delivered with the kind of theatrical contempt that thirteen-year-olds have perfected. “Why did you bring her?” she asked loud enough for everyone to hear, referring to Nora as if she was an unwelcome pet rather than a family member.
“Madison, be nice,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and diplomatic. “She’s your cousin.”
Kendra’s response from the kitchen was a casual laugh that dismissed my concerns without acknowledging their validity. “Oh, don’t take it personally, Elise. Madison just doesn’t like little kids. It’s normal.”
That word—normal—would haunt me for months afterward. The idea that a thirteen-year-old’s hostility toward a four-year-old cousin was normal revealed a fundamental misunderstanding of healthy family dynamics and appropriate behavioral expectations. But rather than challenge this characterization, I chose to focus on managing Nora’s experience and hoping that the situation would improve as the day progressed.
The Escalating Confrontations
Nora handled the initial rejection with the resilience that had always impressed me about her character. She found a quiet corner of the living room where she could play with her stuffed elephant while the adults engaged in conversation, occasionally glancing up hopefully when someone would acknowledge her presence with a smile or brief comment.
But Madison’s attention remained focused on her younger cousin with an intensity that made me increasingly uncomfortable. She wasn’t ignoring Nora—she was studying her, watching for opportunities to assert dominance or create conflict. The calculating quality of her observation suggested planning and intent that went beyond typical adolescent irritation with younger children.
The first direct confrontation came when Madison decided that Nora’s quiet play was somehow offensive to her teenage sensibilities. “Only babies play with that junk,” she announced, attempting to take the stuffed elephant that Nora had been holding.
“Stop it, Madison! That’s mine!” Nora protested, her voice rising with the kind of distress that should have immediately attracted adult intervention.
The struggle that followed was brief but telling. Madison was not trying to examine the toy or engage in playful interaction—she was deliberately attempting to take something that belonged to Nora for the specific purpose of causing distress. When Nora refused to surrender her elephant, Madison’s response escalated to physical aggression.
“Madison, enough,” I said sternly, using the voice I reserved for serious behavioral corrections.
But instead of support from other adults, I received pushback that prioritized Madison’s comfort over Nora’s rights. “Let them work it out,” Kendra said dismissively. “It’s good for them.”
The idea that a thirteen-year-old should be allowed to “work out” a conflict with a four-year-old without adult supervision or intervention revealed a fundamental misunderstanding of child development and appropriate behavioral expectations. But once again, I found myself isolated in my concern and unsupported in my attempts to protect my daughter.
The Physical Assault
The situation escalated rapidly from emotional cruelty to physical violence when Madison decided that Nora’s resistance to her bullying required more dramatic action. The slap that followed was not a moment of lost temper or accidental contact—it was a deliberate assault designed to establish dominance and inflict pain.
I arrived to find Nora cradling her red cheek while Madison stood over her with an expression of satisfaction rather than remorse. The handprint on my daughter’s face was clear and unmistakable, but Madison’s immediate response was to lie about what had happened.
“She slapped me first!” Madison claimed, despite the obvious implausibility of a four-year-old successfully striking a thirteen-year-old without provocation.
“She’s four,” I said, my voice tight with controlled anger. “You’re thirteen. You should know better.”
The response from my family was swift and unanimous in Madison’s defense. “Oh, please,” Kendra said with an eye roll. “Kids fight. You’re overreacting.”
My parents joined the chorus of dismissal, suggesting that Nora needed to “toughen up” and that my protective response was evidence of overparenting rather than appropriate concern for my child’s safety. Madison watched this adult conversation with obvious satisfaction, understanding that she had successfully recruited the family to her side against her victim.
The isolation I felt in that moment was profound and disorienting. The people who should have been most outraged by the assault on my daughter were instead criticizing me for objecting to it. The child who had committed the assault was being protected and defended while my daughter was being blamed for provoking it.
The Bathroom Sanctuary
I decided to remove Nora from the hostile environment by taking her upstairs to wash her face and provide some comfort away from the witnesses to her humiliation. The bathroom became a temporary sanctuary where I could hold my daughter and try to process what had just happened.
“Why did Madison hit me, Mama?” Nora whispered, her voice carrying the kind of confusion that comes from encountering cruelty that violates everything you’ve been taught about how people should treat each other.
I didn’t have an adequate answer for her question because I was struggling with the same confusion myself. How do you explain to a four-year-old that sometimes people hurt others simply because they can, and that sometimes the adults who are supposed to protect children choose not to intervene when protection is needed?
The bathroom conversation was brief but significant because it marked the moment when I began to understand that my family’s response to Madison’s behavior was not an aberration but a pattern. They had chosen Madison’s comfort over Nora’s safety, and they would likely continue to make that choice unless something changed dramatically.
As we prepared to leave the bathroom and return to the party, I made a mental commitment to keeping Nora close to me for the remainder of the visit. I would not leave her alone with Madison again, and I would not rely on other family members to intervene if further conflicts arose.
The Staircase Incident
But my protective planning was inadequate against the level of calculation and malice that Madison had developed over years of getting away with cruel behavior. As we opened the bathroom door to head back downstairs, she was waiting in the hallway with the kind of predatory patience that suggested she had been planning her next move.
“There you are,” Madison said with false sweetness. “Come on, Nora, I have a surprise for you downstairs.”
The manipulation in her voice was obvious to me, but I knew that Nora, with her trusting nature and desire for family acceptance, would be vulnerable to the suggestion of a peace offering. “We’re going down together,” I said firmly, taking Nora’s hand and positioning myself between the two girls.
At the top of the spiral staircase, Madison suddenly blocked our path. The staircase in my parents’ house was particularly dangerous—fifteen hardwood steps in a steep spiral with no carpet or safety features to soften a fall. I had always been careful when navigating those stairs with Nora, holding her hand and taking our time to ensure safe passage.
Madison’s positioning at the top of the stairs was deliberate and threatening. She looked directly at Nora with an expression of cold calculation that made my protective instincts flare with alarm.
“You’re so annoying,” she said to my four-year-old daughter. “I don’t want you here anymore.”
And before I could react, before I could step between them or pull Nora to safety, Madison shoved my daughter down the stairs.
The Fall and Its Aftermath
What followed happened in slow motion and real time simultaneously. I watched my daughter’s small body tumble down fifteen hardwood steps, bouncing and twisting with each impact, her head finally striking the landing with a sound that I will hear in nightmares for the rest of my life.
Nora was limp and bleeding when I reached her, her eyes barely open and her body positioned in ways that suggested serious injury. The terror that filled me in that moment was unlike anything I had ever experienced—the primal fear of a parent confronting the possible loss of a child.
I called 911 with hands that shook so badly I could barely operate my phone, providing the dispatcher with information about my daughter’s condition and the circumstances of her fall. While I waited for emergency responders, I tried to keep Nora conscious and still, terrified that moving her might cause additional damage.
And my family’s response to this crisis revealed the depth of their moral bankruptcy in ways that still leave me speechless years later.
Kendra laughed. Not a nervous laugh or a shocked giggle, but actual amusement at the sight of my injured daughter. My mother muttered that Nora was “fine” despite obvious evidence to the contrary. My father suggested that “kids are tougher than they look” while my daughter lay motionless on the floor.
Madison herself stared at the results of her assault with an expression that suggested satisfaction rather than remorse. She had successfully hurt Nora, and the adults who should have been holding her accountable were instead minimizing the significance of what she had done.
The Hospital Crisis
The paramedics arrived with professional efficiency, immediately recognizing the severity of Nora’s condition and beginning treatment that may have saved her life. The transport to the hospital was a blur of sirens and medical equipment, with EMTs working to stabilize my daughter while I tried to stay out of their way and provide whatever information they needed.
At the hospital, the diagnosis was devastating: skull fracture, severe concussion, and brain swelling that required immediate intervention. The doctor who delivered this information looked me in the eye with the kind of serious expression that medical professionals reserve for life-threatening situations.
“If you had waited another hour to seek medical attention,” he said, “she might not have survived.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, confirming that Madison’s assault could have killed my daughter and that my family’s dismissive response could have been complicit in her death. The people who should have been most concerned about Nora’s welfare had been willing to let her suffer and potentially die rather than acknowledge the seriousness of what had happened.
And none of them came to the hospital. Not my parents, who had dismissed her injuries as insignificant. Not Kendra, who had laughed at her pain. Not even a phone call to check on her condition or offer support during the crisis.
The abandonment was complete and unforgivable. As I sat beside my daughter’s hospital bed, watching machines monitor her vital signs and praying for her recovery, I made a promise that would define the rest of our lives: I would never allow them to hurt her again.
The Investigation and Documentation
While Nora slept in her hospital bed, surrounded by the machines that were keeping her stable, I began the process of documenting everything that had happened. The hospital staff had already contacted Child Protective Services as required by law when a child is admitted with injuries that suggest abuse or neglect.
I provided detailed statements to the police, to CPS investigators, and to hospital social workers about the circumstances of Nora’s fall and the family dynamics that had led to this crisis. The pattern of favoritism, the history of Madison’s aggressive behavior, and the family’s dismissive response to the assault all became part of an official record that would be crucial in the battles that followed.
The medical documentation was extensive and damning. X-rays showed the skull fracture clearly, and neurological assessments confirmed the severity of the brain injury. Photographs documented bruising and other injuries that were consistent with a violent fall down a flight of stairs.
But perhaps most important was my decision to begin recording phone calls with family members. When they finally did contact me, their words revealed the depth of their denial and their commitment to protecting Madison rather than seeking justice for Nora.
“She just fell,” became their consistent narrative, despite my eyewitness testimony to the contrary. “Kids are clumsy,” they would say, or “These things happen.” Their willingness to lie about what I had seen with my own eyes confirmed that they could not be trusted to protect Nora or hold Madison accountable for her actions.
The Decision for Justice
The realization that my family would never voluntarily acknowledge what Madison had done or take steps to prevent future violence forced me to make a decision that would have been unthinkable before Nora’s assault. I would seek justice through legal means, regardless of the impact on family relationships that had already proven worthless.
The decision was not made in anger, though anger was certainly part of my emotional response. It was made from a place of protective love and a clear-eyed assessment of the threat that my family posed to my daughter’s safety and wellbeing. They had shown me who they were through their response to her near-fatal injury, and I chose to believe them.
The first step was pursuing criminal charges against Madison for assault. While her age complicated the legal process, the severity of Nora’s injuries and the deliberate nature of the attack made prosecution possible under juvenile court procedures. The recorded phone calls in which family members dismissed or denied the assault became crucial evidence in establishing the intent and premeditation that elevated the charges.
Simultaneously, I began preparing a civil lawsuit against all the adult family members who had failed to protect Nora or seek appropriate medical attention after her assault. Their negligence had endangered her life and their continued denial made future incidents likely if no consequences were imposed.
The Systematic Accountability
But legal action was only one component of the accountability that I determined was necessary. Each family member had made choices that contributed to Nora’s endangerment, and each would face consequences that matched their level of responsibility and their capacity to inflict future harm.
Madison’s expulsion from her expensive private school was the direct result of the police report and CPS investigation that documented her violent behavior. The school’s administration recognized that they could not ensure the safety of other students if they continued to enroll a child who had nearly killed her cousin and shown no remorse for her actions.
Kendra’s real estate license was revoked after I provided evidence to the state licensing board about her negligent supervision of a violent child and her failure to seek medical attention for an injured family member. The professional standards that governed her industry required integrity and responsibility that her actions had shown she lacked.
My parents’ business faced IRS investigation after I provided documentation of tax evasion and under-the-table payments that I had observed over years of family involvement in their restaurant operations. Their financial resources, which they had used to shield Madison from consequences, were depleted by fines and legal fees that forced them to close the business and liquidate their assets.
The affair that Kendra had confided to me years earlier became public knowledge when I provided evidence to the betrayed spouse and their mutual employer. Both Kendra and her lover lost their jobs, and the financial stability that had enabled her irresponsible parenting was destroyed.
The Legal Victory
The civil lawsuit proceeded through months of discovery, depositions, and legal maneuvering that gradually built an overwhelming case for liability and damages. The medical records documenting Nora’s injuries, the recorded phone calls capturing family members’ denials and lies, and expert testimony about the long-term impacts of traumatic brain injury created a compelling narrative of negligence and cruelty.
The settlement negotiations were conducted through attorneys, sparing me from direct contact with family members who continued to deny responsibility for what had happened. Their legal counsel eventually advised them that proceeding to trial would likely result in an even larger judgment, given the strength of the evidence and the sympathetic nature of the victim.
The final settlement was nearly four hundred thousand dollars, paid jointly by my parents and sister in amounts that reflected their respective levels of responsibility for Nora’s injuries. The money would fund Nora’s ongoing medical care, therapy, and educational needs while also providing financial security that would allow me to focus on her recovery rather than worrying about how to pay for necessary treatments.
But more important than the money was the legal recognition that what had happened to Nora was wrong, that the adults who had failed to protect her were liable for their negligence, and that accountability was possible even when family loyalty had failed.
The Long Recovery
Nora’s physical recovery was gradual but ultimately successful, aided by excellent medical care and her own remarkable resilience. The skull fracture healed without permanent damage, the brain swelling subsided without leaving visible deficits, and her cognitive function returned to normal levels over the course of several months.
But the emotional and psychological impacts of the assault were more complex and lasting. Nora struggled with anxiety about family gatherings, difficulties trusting adult authority figures who had failed to protect her, and recurring nightmares about falling that required months of specialized therapy to resolve.
The therapy process was difficult for both of us, as it required confronting the reality of what our family had done and helping Nora understand that the assault was not her fault despite the victim-blaming messages she had received from family members. We worked with trauma specialists who helped her develop coping strategies and rebuild her sense of safety in the world.
My own therapy focused on processing the guilt I felt for exposing Nora to dangerous people, learning to trust my protective instincts rather than prioritizing family harmony, and developing strategies for maintaining boundaries that would keep us both safe from future harm.
The Aftermath for the Family
The consequences that I had imposed on my family members were severe and lasting, designed to match the severity of their choices and their continued refusal to acknowledge wrongdoing. Madison’s educational opportunities were permanently affected by her expulsion, as other private schools were reluctant to accept a student with a documented history of violence.
Kendra’s career in real estate was effectively ended by the revocation of her license, and her financial stability was destroyed by the legal fees, settlement payments, and loss of employment. The public exposure of her affair further damaged her reputation and social standing in ways that affected her ability to rebuild her professional life.
My parents lost not only their business but their retirement security, their social standing in the community, and their relationships with their grandchildren. The financial penalties they faced forced them to sell their home and take part-time jobs to afford basic living expenses.
The family that had once enabled Madison’s cruelty and protected her from consequences was no longer capable of providing that protection. The resources they had used to shield her from accountability had been depleted, and their credibility had been permanently damaged by their response to Nora’s assault.
The Question of Forgiveness
In the years that followed, various intermediaries attempted to broker reconciliation between us, suggesting that forgiveness was necessary for healing and that family bonds should be restored for everyone’s benefit. These well-meaning friends and distant relatives fundamentally misunderstood both the nature of what had happened and the requirements for genuine reconciliation.
Forgiveness, I came to understand, was not something I owed to people who had endangered my child and continued to deny their responsibility for doing so. Forgiveness required acknowledgment of wrongdoing, genuine remorse, and concrete changes in behavior that would prevent future harm. None of these elements were present in my family’s response to the crisis.
More importantly, protecting Nora required maintaining boundaries that would prevent future exposure to people who had proven themselves capable of causing her serious harm. My primary obligation was to my daughter’s safety and wellbeing, not to maintaining relationships with people who had forfeited their right to be part of our lives.
The peace that came from cutting contact with toxic family members was profound and lasting. Without the constant stress of managing their dysfunction or protecting Nora from their cruelty, we were able to build a life based on authentic relationships with people who shared our values and respected our boundaries.
The New Family We Built
The absence of biological family members from our lives created space for chosen family relationships that were based on mutual respect, shared values, and genuine care for each other’s wellbeing. Nora developed close relationships with David’s family, who embraced her with the kind of unconditional love that my family had never provided.
We also built connections with other families in our community who shared our interests and values, creating a support network that was reliable and nurturing in ways that our biological family had never been. These relationships were chosen rather than imposed, maintained through mutual effort rather than obligation, and characterized by honesty rather than dysfunction.
Nora thrived in this environment of authentic love and support. Her natural curiosity and kindness flourished when she was surrounded by adults who valued those qualities rather than demanding that she suppress them to avoid conflict with more aggressive family members.
The trauma of her assault became part of her story but not the defining element of her identity. She learned that she was worthy of protection, that adults could be trusted to keep her safe, and that her feelings and needs mattered to the people who loved her.
The Lessons Learned
The experience of confronting family dysfunction and seeking justice for my daughter taught me valuable lessons about the difference between family loyalty and enabling harmful behavior. True loyalty requires holding people accountable for their actions, protecting vulnerable family members from harm, and prioritizing moral principles over social convenience.
I also learned that children are incredibly resilient when they are provided with appropriate support and protection. Nora’s recovery from both physical and emotional trauma was possible because she was surrounded by adults who validated her experience, provided necessary treatment, and maintained boundaries that kept her safe from further harm.
Perhaps most importantly, I learned that seeking justice for wrongdoing is not revenge—it is a necessary component of healing and prevention. The consequences that my family faced were not punishments that I imposed but natural results of their choices and their refusal to take responsibility for those choices.
The Continuing Vigilance
Years later, as Nora has grown into a confident and compassionate young person, I remain vigilant about protecting her from people who might seek to harm her or minimize her worth. The lessons learned from our family’s betrayal have made me more discerning about relationships and more willing to enforce boundaries that protect our wellbeing.
Madison is now an adult, but she has never acknowledged the severity of what she did or expressed genuine remorse for nearly killing her cousin. Her mother and grandparents continue to enable her behavior and deny the reality of what happened on that November day. Their continued dysfunction confirms that maintaining distance from them was the right choice for our family’s safety and peace.
The financial settlement has provided security for Nora’s future, funding her education and ensuring that she will have opportunities that were never available to me at her age. But more important than the money is the knowledge that justice was achieved and accountability was imposed on people who had thought themselves immune to consequences.
Conclusion: The Price of Protection
Some people might consider the actions I took against my family to be extreme or vindictive, driven by anger rather than justice. But those people have never watched their child lie motionless at the bottom of a staircase, never listened to family members laugh at their child’s pain, never faced the choice between maintaining family relationships and protecting their child from harm.
When your family fails you in the most fundamental way possible—when they endanger your child and then deny responsibility for doing so—extreme measures become necessary measures. The destruction of their financial security, professional standing, and social relationships was not revenge but accountability, not punishment but protection.
Nora is safe now, surrounded by people who value her life and wellbeing above their own comfort or convenience. She will grow up knowing that she is worthy of protection, that justice is possible even when powerful people try to avoid consequences, and that some principles are worth fighting for regardless of the personal cost.
The family that failed us is gone, replaced by chosen relationships that are based on love rather than obligation, honesty rather than dysfunction, and protection rather than harm. In losing the family I was born into, we gained the family we deserved—one that prioritizes truth over convenience and safety over appearances.
When your child lies broken at the bottom of the stairs and your own family laughs, you don’t just forgive and forget. You make sure it never happens again, regardless of the cost to relationships that were already revealed to be worthless. That is not revenge—that is love in its most protective and powerful form.
