Chapter 3
We spent six hours in the ER.
The doctors monitored Henry’s heartbeat.
Checked Emma’s blood pressure.
Ultrasounded her belly a dozen times.
The kick had bruised her abdominal wall badly.
A dark purple handprint already spreading across her skin.
But by some miracle —
The baby was fine.
Strong heartbeat.
Moving.
Kicking.
Healthy.
Emma’s blood pressure was high, but not dangerously so.
They gave her something for the pain.
Something for the anxiety.
Strict orders for absolute bed rest for the next week.
No stress.
No lifting.
No kneeling.
No standing longer than five minutes at a time.
I signed the discharge papers at 8:47 that night.
Drove us not back to the big house on Magnolia Lane.
But to the small lake cottage I’d bought three years earlier as an investment.
Furnished.
Cozy.
Private.
No one knew about it but me.
I carried Emma over the threshold.
Laid her on the soft bed in the master bedroom.
Tucked her in.
Made her tea.
Heated up soup.
Sat beside her and held her hand while she ate.
She fell asleep holding my wrist.
Like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat in the armchair by the bed.
Watched her breathe.
Watched my son move beneath her skin.
And I thought about everything.
How I’d begged Margaret to move in.
How proud I’d been to finally be able to “pay her back” for all those hard years.
How I’d ignored every red flag.
Every time Emma had said, “Your mom seems a little tired today, maybe we should order dinner instead of her cooking.”
Every time she’d changed the subject when I asked how her day had been.
Every time she’d flinched when Margaret raised her voice.
I’d told myself Emma was just hormonal.
Just nervous about being a first-time mom.
Just adjusting to having another woman in the house.
I’d been willfully blind.
Because I wanted the fantasy.
The perfect multi-generational family.
Mom living with us.
Helping raise the baby.
Sunday dinners.
Holidays.
All of it.
And I’d let that fantasy blind me to the reality right in front of my face.
My wife was being tortured.
My money was being stolen.
And I’d been too busy and too stupid to see it.
At 5:30 in the morning, I picked up my phone.
Called my lawyer.
The best in the state.
The one who’d gotten me out of three nasty lawsuits and written every contract I’d ever signed.
“Richard,” I said when he answered, voice rough with lack of sleep. “I need you. Big time. I need restraining orders. I need a forensic accountant. I need every legal avenue you can think of to get back every cent my mother and brother stole from me. And I need to make sure they never come within a mile of my wife or my son ever again. Money is no object. Whatever it takes.”
Richard was quiet for two seconds.
“Send me everything you have,” he said. “I’ll be at your office in two hours. We’re going to burn them to the ground, Ethan. Legally. Cleanly. And they will never bother you again.”
I hung up.
Emma stirred in bed.
Opened her eyes.
Looked at me.
“Who was that?” she whispered.
“Just work,” I said, lying smoothly. I didn’t want her to worry about any of it. Not now. Not ever again. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’ve got everything handled. I’ve got you.”
She closed her eyes.
Settled back into the pillow.
I went to the window.
Looked out over the lake.
The sun was coming up.
Pink and gold across the water.
A new day.
And for the first time since Margaret had walked through our front door with her suitcases eight months earlier, I breathed deep.
And I knew.
No matter what happened next.
May you like
No matter how ugly it got.
I would burn the whole world down before I let anyone hurt Emma or Henry ever again.
