I froze when I saw the police car parked in front of our house. The flashing lights weren’t on, but my stomach still dropped. Two officers were near the porch, and I hesitated, heart racing. My son, Isaiah, was inside. My husband wasn’t home. And as a Black mother, I didn’t need to imagine the worst—I’d seen enough headlines to feel that fear.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped outside. “Isaiah?” My voice trembled more than I wanted it to.
He came running up the porch steps, grinning ear to ear. “Mom! Did you see?”
One officer, a white man with a buzz cut, turned toward me. “Ma’am, your son is quite the little hero.”
Hero?
I looked from Isaiah to the second officer, a Black woman who gave a small, reassuring nod. But I was still on edge.
“There was a man running through the neighborhood,” the officer explained. “We were close to losing him—until your son stepped in.”
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