Chapter 2 - THE REPORT
For a second, the room disappeared.
I heard only the steady electronic beep from the monitor beside my bed.
“What did you say?”
Diane smoothed the front of her coat.
“I said there are concerns.”
“About what?”
Brielle’s anger vanished.
She suddenly looked nervous.
That was when I knew this wasn’t an empty threat.
My mother continued.
“You’ve been unstable for months.”
I almost laughed.
“Unstable?”
“Working until you went into labor. Refusing help. Obsessing over money.”
“You mean refusing to spend eighty thousand dollars on Brielle’s birthday?”
“You see?” Diane said calmly. “Everything becomes an argument.”
I reached toward the nurse-call button.
Brielle saw me.
She moved first.
Her hand closed around my wrist.
Pain shot through my abdomen as I twisted.
“Let go of me!”
Clara woke and began crying.
Diane hissed, “Look what you’re doing to the baby.”
I shouted for help.
A nurse appeared almost immediately.
Brielle released me.
The nurse took one look at my face.
“Is everything okay?”
“No. I want them out.”
Diane smiled.
“My daughter is exhausted. She’s confused.”
“I’m not confused.”
“Natalie—”
“Get them out.”
The nurse stepped between us.
“Ma’am, you need to leave.”
My mother didn’t move.
Instead, she opened her purse and removed a folded document.
“I think someone from social work should see this first.”
My heart stopped.
The nurse looked at the page.
Her expression changed.
“What is that?” I asked.
Diane handed it over.
“A report.”
“From who?”
She looked at me.
“Someone concerned about Clara.”
The nurse didn’t answer my questions.
She pressed the call button near the door and asked for hospital security.
Then another request.
“Can you have social work come to room 614?”
I stared at my mother.
“What did you do?”
Diane remained perfectly calm.
Brielle didn’t.
Her hands were shaking.
Ten minutes later, security escorted them into the hallway.
Before the door closed, Diane leaned toward me.
“You should have just paid the deposit.”
Then the social worker arrived.
She introduced herself as Ms. Patterson and sat beside my bed.
“There was a report filed before your daughter was born.”
“Before?”
“Yes.”
“How far before?”
She checked the paperwork.
“Seven weeks.”
Seven weeks.
Almost exactly when Brielle first showed me the birthday budget.
Then Ms. Patterson said the name of the person who had filed the complaint.
I expected my mother.
I expected Brielle.
May you like
Instead, she said:
“Your husband, Grant Holloway.”
