Christina Bobrow lives in Farmington.

My dad, of blessed memory, taught me to shoot early.

Summers, out behind the house; winters, out my bedroom window up into the woods, paper targets nailed to a post. Both his love of precision shooting and the large collection of guns in the house led him to ensure that his only child was well-trained on firearms.

He instilled in me iron-clad safety rules: treat every gun as loaded, keep them locked when not in use, store ammunition separately and only ever point a gun down-range.

As years passed, the world left him more and more anxious. He feared criminals saw him as “old, fat and slow.” His commitment to the rules slipped. He taught his grandchildren basic marksmanship with both rifle and pistol, but no longer modeled the safety that he’d preached. We began to find guns, loaded, in his desk, on his nightstand, in the car door.

Dad was proud of his quick reflexes and his steady arm. At the same time, he was prone to startlement and sometimes hid confusion behind aggressiveness. One day, I opened the door to welcome him home and, surprised, he whipped up his cane to whack me before he realized he wasn’t under threat.

When we visited my parents, my nightly bathroom visit took me past his open bedroom door. In the darkness, I could hear his breathing change abruptly from relaxed to alert. Once he shouted, “Who’s there?”

I prayed that if he ever pulled the trigger, he would hit me and not my child. Every night.

He told me about the neighbor who’d cursed him and said vulgar things about my mother. Dad explained that if he’d had his gun, that man couldn’t have said such things. “Why would you need a gun when he was just running his mouth?” I asked. Dad responded, “A person can’t talk like that.”

I talked to him about my concerns (he reminded me he had been using guns since before I was born). Knowing he couldn’t manage the stairs, I moved his arsenal to the basement (he enlisted help to haul everything back up).

I spoke to the police about options (did we want him taken into custody?). I talked to a lawyer (I could face my beloved dad in court and appeal for guardianship, but the lawyer didn’t think this qualified as an emergency). I felt like we had no options. I braced for the worst.

One evening, after dozing off in his chair, something startled Dad awake — in a heartbeat, my father was pointing a pistol straight forward, aiming nowhere really, but just inches from my mother. Dad had had the weapon wedged in his recliner, out of sight but at hand. He didn’t know what he was aiming at or why.

Like my dad, Maine has a long tradition of safe and responsible gun ownership. Do I believe anyone should be able to take away your gun (or mine)? No. But I do believe that sometimes conditions require the possibility of intervention to prevent disaster, and the existing “yellow flag law” would have traumatized all of us.

The ballot initiative known as Question 2 would allow the courts to temporarily prohibit a person from having weapons if law enforcement, family or household members show that a person poses a significant danger to themselves or others (and misrepresenting the danger before a judge would be a Class C crime).

It is a tool, a temporary remedy to a dangerous situation. This is why I will be voting “Yes” on Question 2 on Nov. 4.