Chapter 6
Diane’s bail was revoked.
Ethan’s too.
The sedative bottle changed everything.
So did Aunt Carol’s cooperation after police warned her she might face charges.
Carol cried in an interview room and said Diane told her the vitamins were “for Amelia’s nerves.”
She claimed she didn’t know.
Maybe she didn’t.
Maybe she chose not to.
I was running out of sympathy for people who survived by not asking questions.
The prosecutor added charges.
Forgery.
Coercion.
Protective order violation.
Attempted financial exploitation.
Attempted unlawful guardianship.
Tampering with medication.
Assault.
Ethan’s lawyer stopped asking for mercy and started asking for separation from Diane.
Pathetic.
But useful.
He turned over emails.
Texts.
Voice notes.
And one recording.
Diane speaking to Ethan two weeks before the slap.
“She’ll never hand over the money while she thinks the baby belongs to her.”
Ethan replied, “She is the mother.”
Diane said, “Mothers can be replaced. Money cannot.”
I listened once.
Then I went to the bathroom and threw up.
Not from pregnancy.
From rage.
Dr. Martin monitored me closely after that.
Stress raised my blood pressure.
I hated that my body responded to their cruelty like it belonged to them.
She held my good hand and said, “Your job right now is not to fight every minute. Your job is to let your team fight while you grow a baby.”
My team.
Nora.
Priya.
Detective Ruiz.
Dr. Martin.
Mrs. Chen.
People Ethan had dismissed as “your little support group.”
Funny how little support groups can become fortresses.
At seven months pregnant, I moved back into my house.
Not alone.
Nora moved into the guest room.
Mrs. Chen installed extra cameras with her son’s help.
Priya changed the locks.
Detective Ruiz had patrols pass by.
The nursery was repaired.
My father’s crib came back from evidence.
My mother’s blankets were washed, folded, and placed in the top drawer.
I stood in the doorway and cried.
Nora stood beside me.
“Happy tears or bad tears?”
“Yes,” I said.
She laughed softly.
Good.
I needed a little laughter.
The trial was scheduled for after my due date, but the preliminary hearing came first.
I attended in a navy maternity dress and a wrist brace.
Diane entered in pearls.
Ethan entered in shame.
They both looked at my stomach.
I placed both hands over it.
Protective.
Public.
Mine.
Diane’s lawyer tried to paint her as a worried grandmother.
Then the prosecutor played her recording.
Mothers can be replaced. Money cannot.
The courtroom went silent.
Diane’s expression did not change.
That was worse than crying.
Ethan looked down.
The judge ordered both held until trial.
As they were led away, Diane turned to me.
“That child is a Carter.”
I stood.
“No,” I said. “She is mine.”
Diane smiled.
“For now.”
Detective Ruiz stepped forward.
“Keep talking, Mrs. Carter.”
Diane shut her mouth.
But her eyes promised war.
Two weeks later, I received a letter from prison.
Not from Diane.
From Ethan.
I almost threw it away.
Priya told me reading was my choice.
So I opened it.
Amelia,
I thought Mom was protecting the family. I know now she was protecting control. I helped her because I was weak and angry that your parents gave you what mine never gave me: freedom.
I am sorry.
I do not ask forgiveness.
I will testify.
I will sign away any claim to your inheritance.
And if you want me to sign away parental rights, I will.
I read that last line ten times.
Then my daughter kicked.
May you like
Hard.
As if she had an opinion.
