My Grandson Called Me In The Middle Of The Night: ‘Grandma, I’m At The Station… My Stepfather Told Me To Leave, And Now He’s Saying I Caused Trouble, And They Took His Word!’ When I Arrived At The Station, The Officer Paused And Said, ‘I’m Sorry… I DIDN’T KNOW.’

“Okay,” he whispered, sounding younger than his 16 years. “Please hurry, Grandma.”

As I hung up, the practiced calm I’d maintained for Tyler’s benefit gave way to a cold anger.

In the 7 years since Michael’s death, I’d done everything possible to support Jennifer in raising my grandson. I’d never interfered in her relationships, even when I had reservations. But this—this was crossing a line I couldn’t ignore.

The drive from Boston to Portland normally took just under two hours, but at that hour with empty highways, I made it in an hour and 40 minutes. The familiar weight of responsibility settled over me as I drove. Memories of my years as Judge Margaret Sullivan, providing a framework for what needed to be done.

I’d spent three decades ensuring that power wasn’t abused in my courtroom. I wouldn’t stand by while it was abused against my grandson. The Portland Police Station was brightly lit against the 3:30 a.m.

darkness, an imposing brick building that had probably seemed impressive once, but now looked tired and institutional. I parked in the visitor lot and took a moment to center myself, adjusting my clothing. A simple black pants suit I kept ready for emergencies, and squaring my shoulders.

The desk sergeant looked up as I entered, his expression a mixture of boredom and mild curiosity at seeing a well-dressed older woman arriving at this hour. “I’m here for Tyler Sullivan,”

I announced, my voice carrying the same authoritative tone I’d used to quiet unruly attorneys. “My grandson was brought in earlier this evening.”

The sergeant tapped at his computer.

“Sullivan. Yes, he’s being held pending juvenile charges, domestic disturbance, and assault. Are you his legal guardian?”

“I’m his grandmother, Margaret Sullivan,” I replied evenly.

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