Chapter 8
Fernanda’s family tried to intervene.
Her mother called me first.
“You have destroyed my daughter’s reputation,” she said.
I almost hung up.
Instead, I put her on speaker so Keisha could record.
“Your daughter abused my child.”
“She made mistakes.”
“She fed an eight-year-old a bone.”
A pause.
“She was under stress.”
“My daughter was undernourished.”
“Marcus, please. Fernanda loves you.”
That made me laugh.
Not kindly.
“She loved being my wife. There’s a difference.”
Her mother’s voice hardened.
“If you proceed with divorce, we will make sure everyone knows you neglected that girl long before Fernanda entered the picture.”
“There it is,” I said.
“What?”
“The family resemblance.”
I ended the call.
The divorce filing went in that afternoon.
Fernanda responded by requesting spousal support.
Then claimed emotional distress.
Then argued she had been forced into “unpaid childcare labor.”
Keisha read the filing with the expression of a woman chewing glass.
“Judges dislike cruelty,” she said. “But they deeply dislike cruelty followed by invoice.”
The divorce became ugly.
Predictably.
Fernanda wanted money.
Furniture.
Her car.
Part of the house value.
She also wanted access to the narrative.
That was the one thing I refused.
When mediation began, she looked thinner.
Less polished.
Still beautiful.
Still dangerous.
She sat across from me and said, “I never meant to hurt Nia.”
I looked at her.
“You meant to make her feel unwanted.”
Her mouth tightened.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when the target is a child.”
The mediator shifted uncomfortably.
Fernanda folded her hands.
“I was jealous.”
I said nothing.
“She looked like Lena.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Fernanda blinked.
“What?”
“Nia has her own face. You put Lena on her because you needed someone to compete with.”
Her eyes filled.
“I felt like a ghost lived in our house.”
“A ghost did live in our house,” I said. “Grief. You chose to haunt the child instead.”
She looked down.
For once, she had no answer.
The settlement moved quickly after that.
She received limited financial terms based on the prenup.
No house.
No ongoing support beyond a small temporary amount.
No contact with Nia.
She agreed not to speak publicly about Nia.
In exchange, I agreed not to release the security footage unless she violated the agreement or court orders.
Some people would have released it anyway.
I thought about it.
Often.
But Nia deserved privacy more than I deserved public validation.
The videos stayed sealed.
Except with doctors, therapists, court, and CPS.
Nia knew they existed.
One night, she asked, “Can people see them?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Not unless we need them to keep you safe.”
She thought about that.
“Good.”
Then, “Do you watch them?”
I answered honestly.
“I did. I don’t anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need to watch you hurt to remember to protect you.”
May you like
She leaned against me.
“That’s good too.”
