The below and next two posts require a bit of a warning. This is upsetting stuff. If you don’t know already, Chris and I were subjected to some pretty awful treatment by the police following Sophia’s death. This is how it began…

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The funeral came and went, the out of town guests eventually returned home, and I continued to sit for hours in the brown leather chair, holding a little purple dress with her spit up on the collar, wondering when I was going to wake up already.
And perhaps that is why my guard was down that day when the police called.
I was working on the computer with my brother, Perek, when the call came.
“Is this Prinna Boudreau?” the woman on the other line said.
“Yes, this is Prinna,” I replied, correcting her pronunciation.
“Prinna, this is Lieutenant Adams; I interviewed you at the hospital the night your daughter died…October 9, 2007. I just have a few more questions for you and I’d like to have you and Chris come in separately to talk. Are you available some time tomorrow?” she asked.
Questions? Separately? Tomorrow?
My blood ran cold. I grasped desperately for Perek and clung to his shoulders to prevent myself from falling to the floor. I instinctively put my head between my knees to keep from hyperventilating. The room started to spin wildly.
But I tried to compose myself; I didn’t want to appear guilty of something so I said, “Yes, absolutely, would 10:00 work for you?”
“Yes, please be here at 10:00 tomorrow. Oh one more quick question,” Officer Adams said. “What time did you say your babysitter was there the day that Sophia died?”
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As soon as I hung up the phone, all hell broke loose. I went tearing around the house like a wild animal, screaming that they were going to arrest me. That they thought we had killed Sophia. That they were taking me in tomorrow and I was going to jail.
I bounced around from room to room as Perek followed me running his hands through his hair looking terrified. He didn’t understand what was happening but he knew I needed help. He made some phone calls from the office while I continued my crazed tirade through the first and then second level of our house.
At some point he caught me and led me into the bathroom asking, “where are those pills that Dr. Taylor gave you, Prinna. Where are they? Show me where they are!” He still had the phone perched on his shoulder and I knew he was getting direction from someone…probably my mom.
I opened the top drawer in the bathroom and pointed to a pill bottle, which he grabbed desperately and struggled to open.
“How many do you take?” he demanded, grabbing my shoulders and forcing eye-contact.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” I kept repeating. I could see my own reflection in the bathroom mirror and I looked like a madwoman.
I hadn’t taken many of the pills so it was an honest answer. But then it occurred to me that maybe they would make these feelings stop, or at least calm me down, so I grabbed at the pill bottle, intent on taking as many as I could get my hands on.
Perek fought me for them. He was somehow able to read the label on the bottle during our little tug-of-war.
“You can have one, Prinna. It says you can have one.”
I took one and collapsed onto Perek, begging him to tell me I was a good mother. Begging him to tell me I wasn’t going to jail.