Wednesday, February 12, 1986, dawns bright but cold. I kiss nine-year-old Emily good-bye and watch her walk across the courtyard to the babysitter’s apartment, where she will walk one block to school with her daughter, who is two years older than Emily.

Then I leave for work. And while I’m not looking, an alien spaceship sets its course for earth.

“Sue, phone call,” Rita calls out.

It’s just after lunch. I walk to the central workbench in the test area where the push-button style phone sits.

“Mrs. Clark?” says a voice I don’t recognize.

“No, this is Mrs. Gabriel. Clark is my husband’s first name.”

"This is Paula Randall of the Child Welfare Division of the Department of Social Services—DSS. We wanted you to know that we have your daughter."

"You what? You have Amber? Why isn't she in school?" My mind starts racing, trying to piece together what she is saying. "Is she hurt?"

"No, Ms. Clark, er… Gabrielle…"

"It's Gabriel." I interrupt her. Who is this lady? I think. She can't even get my name right! Is this some kind of scam?

"Let me talk to Amber," I demand.

"She's not here. It's not about her," she responds in an increasingly tense voice. "We have your other daughter, Emily."

The bottom drops out of my stomach and hits the floor as my brain starts bouncing against the far wall, trying to make sense of her words.

"You have who? Emily? EMILY? WHY?!"

"We need you to come down to the DSS facility and we will talk about that."

I barely stay on the phone long enough to get directions, then I race back to my test station to grab my coat and purse. I briefly tell Jim I have an emergency with Emily and must leave as I hurry down the hall and out to the car.

I don't remember the drive, but I'm sure I broke speed limits. The next thing I remember is being seated in an uncomfortable chair in a small, cold, and sterile room across from a small, cold, and sterile-looking woman.

"Where is Emily?" I ask for at least the third time.

“We will get to that in a minute,” she responds. “First, I want to ask about Clark. Who is he? Your boyfriend?”

“Clark is my husband, but what does that… “

Miss Cold-and-Sterile interrupts and says that Emily is being held in another room. “Held in another room?” She makes it sound like she’s a criminal. What did she do?

She then tells me the one thing I didn’t see coming, the very last thing I expected because the thought of it had not and would never have entered my head.

I don’t see it yet, but the alien spaceship just entered the earth’s atmosphere.

Over the next few minutes, she tells me Emily has revealed that she was sexually molested by Clark.

And just like that, the aliens smash into our little family. To say I am shocked is an understatement. To say I am shocked speechless, that all the blood drains from my head, that I feel faint and sick and hot and cold, and highly, highly confused, all at the same time, is still an understatement.

“Can I talk to Emily?” I ask when I am finally able to speak again. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. If I could just talk…”

Miss Cold-and-Sterile interrupts again. “No. It’s better in these cases if we sort through it first.”

Sort through what? I think. I search my memory. Had Clark really done something like that? It doesn’t ring true. Clark doesn’t seem like that type. We have a great—and frequent—physical relationship. We’ve only been married six weeks, and we are still on our “honeymoon.”

“What did Emily say happened?” I finally ask.

“She said that Clark tickled her.”

Did I hear her right? Did she say that Clark tickled her? Is that a crime now?

“Where?” I ask.

She points to her stomach region. “Here. Around the belly button. And her chest.”

Wait, what? A memory of Clark tickling Emily on the stomach and her giggling as a result appears in my mind.

Then a vision of Emily holding onto Clark like a drowning victim and Clark tickling her armpits to get her to finally let go pops into my head. Does this lady consider a flat-chested nine-year-old’s armpits the “chest?”

I search my memory for anything more sinister. And I can’t remember anything that could even remotely be called sexual molestation.

“Clark is living in your home, correct?” When I nod, she continues, “We will keep Emily for a little while to give you enough time to tell Clark he has to move out. You must demonstrate your full support of Emily, or you may not get your daughter back.”

“What are you talking about?” I almost shout. “I just got married!”

“In that case, it should be pretty simple. I strongly advise a divorce since you got married such a short time ago. Once that is accomplished, we will talk about letting Emily return to your home, under our supervision.”

What on earth..., wait, is this still earth? What is she saying? My mouth goes dry, and I feel faint again.

“Where will Emily be?” I finally ask when I have enough saliva to speak.

“We will hold her in foster care until we have finished our investigation and feel that it’s safe for her to return home. But she can’t return as long as Clark is living in your home. And I advise you not to get an attorney—that will just make you look guilty.”

What is wrong with this woman?

“It’s safe for her to return now. What you describe is NOT sexual molestation! Can I talk with your supervisor?” I ask.

Miss Cold-and-Sterile stands up, walks to the door of the small room, and holds it open as if inviting me to leave. Without Emily.

“You will need to make an appointment for that. She’s off site right now,” she says as she walks me to the front desk to sign out.

I drive home dazed and concussed, having just been squarely hit by an alien spaceship I never knew existed.