PART 3

She had written birthday cards to me for thirteen years. Grocery lists. Notes she left on my kitchen counter. Recipes. Even a handwritten congratulations card when I gave birth to Zoe.

I knew every curve of those letters.

This was hers.

But the words didn’t make sense.

Why would she write that?

 

Why would she have my ultrasound picture?

And more importantly—

Why had she written coming home?

I walked to the kitchen and opened the junk drawer.

I pulled out the small notebook where I kept household expenses.

Friday.The contractor’s payment.$3,100 had already been paid by Lorraine.
The remaining balance would come from the household account.I had planned to cancel it in the morning.Now I wondered if the kitchen renovation was only part of what Lorraine had been planning.I opened my laptop.The first thing I checked was the household account.There were several scheduled transactions.
Mortgage.

Utilities.

Insurance.

Groceries.

Then I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.
A pending authorization.

$8,750 — North Ridge Children’s Furnishings.

I stared at it.

I had never heard of the company.

I clicked the transaction.

The description appeared.

Nursery furniture package — delivery address: 418 Willow Lane.

My address.

My house.

I felt cold all over.

I searched my email.

Nothing.

Then I checked the shared account.

The order had been placed using a card connected to the household account.

But the purchaser’s name was Lorraine.

I closed my eyes.

She wasn’t just planning to control the kitchen.

She was furnishing a nursery.

My nursery.

For my baby.

I picked up my phone and called Mark.

Straight to voicemail.

I called again.

Nothing.

A third time.

Still nothing.

Then a message appeared.

Mark: On my way home. What’s wrong?

I typed:

Did you know your mother ordered $8,750 worth of nursery furniture using our household account?

I stared at the message.

Then deleted it.

If Lorraine had been planning this carefully, I didn’t want to warn her through him.

Instead, I wrote:

We need to talk tonight.

His reply came almost immediately.

About Mom?

My heart stopped.

I typed:

Why would you assume it’s about your mother?

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally:

Because I know she upset you today.

I looked at the screen.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

Maybe he knew much more than I thought.

I put the phone down.

Then I heard footsteps upstairs.

I froze.

“Mommy?”

Zoe’s sleepy voice came from the hallway.

I turned.

She was standing at the top of the stairs holding her stuffed rabbit.

Her cheek still had a faint red mark.

I walked toward her immediately.

“Why are you awake, sweetheart?”

She came down two steps.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Of course.”

She climbed into my arms.

I carried her to my bedroom and tucked her beneath the blanket.

For several minutes she said nothing.

Then, quietly, she asked, “Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“Is Grandma going to take Baby Rose?”

I felt something inside me break.

“No.”

I stroked her hair.

“Nobody is taking your baby sister.”

“But Grandma said…”

“Grandma was wrong.”

Zoe looked at me.

“She said Daddy already said yes.”
I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“She said Daddy knows.”

I sat beside her.

“What exactly did Grandma say?”

Zoe squeezed her rabbit.

“She said when Baby Rose comes, Mommy will need to rest. And Grandma has a big house.”

I swallowed.

“Did she say anything else?”

Zoe nodded.

“She said I can stay with her too.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said Mommy gets confused when she’s tired.”

The room suddenly felt much colder.

“Did she say Mommy was sick?”

Zoe looked frightened.

“She said not yet.”

Not yet.

Two words.

Two words that stayed in my head long after Zoe fell asleep.

I sat beside her until nearly midnight.

Mark finally came home at 12:17.

I heard his keys.

His footsteps.

Then the bedroom door opened.

He stopped when he saw me sitting awake.

“You’re still up?”

“Yes.”

He looked at Zoe.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s asleep.”

He loosened his tie.

“Jen, about today—”

“Did you tell your mother she could raise our baby?”

His face changed.

“No.”

“Did you tell her she could take Zoe?”

“No.”

“Did you tell her she was going to be responsible for the baby after delivery?”

“Of course not.”

I watched him carefully.

“Then why does Zoe think you did?”

He rubbed his face.

“Kids misunderstand things.”

“She’s four, Mark. She may misunderstand complicated conversations. She doesn’t invent entire conversations.”

He looked away.
I stood.

“Did you know your mother ordered nursery furniture?”

He didn’t answer.

That was enough.

“Mark.”

“I knew she was buying some things.”

“With our money?”

“She said she was helping.”

“Eight thousand seven hundred fifty dollars is not helping.”

He sighed.

“She got excited.”

“She also hit our daughter.”

His eyes snapped toward me.

“She what?”

I stared at him.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Denise saw it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was trying to figure out what was happening before I called you.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Mom said Zoe was misbehaving.”

“She slapped a four-year-old.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

I pointed toward the faint mark on Zoe’s cheek.

“You don’t know because you weren’t there.”

He lowered his head.

For the first time that night, I saw something resembling shame on his face.

Then his phone rang.

He looked at the screen.

Mom.

He silenced it.

A second later, it rang again.

He rejected the call.

Then a text appeared.

He read it.

His expression changed.

“What?”

He didn’t answer.

I held out my hand.

“Give me the phone.”

“Jen…”

“Give me the phone.”

He hesitated.

Then he handed it over.

The message was from Lorraine.

Don’t let her scare you. She doesn’t know what we already arranged.

My stomach dropped.

I looked at Mark.

“What did you arrange?”

He stood.

“Nothing.”

“She just said we arranged something.”

“I don’t know what she means.”

“Then call her.”

“At midnight?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head.

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because Mom is emotional.”

I stared at him.

Then I remembered the ultrasound photograph.

I reached into the drawer and pulled it out.

I placed it on the bed.

“Did you give her this?”

He looked at it.

His face went completely still.

“I’ve never seen that.”

“She had it.”

“I didn’t give it to her.”

“Then how did she get it?”

He didn’t answer.

I watched him for several seconds.

Then I noticed something.

He wasn’t looking at the words on the back.

He was staring at the ultrasound image.

Specifically, the small line printed at the bottom.

Patient: Jennifer Carter.

His jaw tightened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. You recognized something.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

He walked toward the bathroom.

I followed.

“Mark.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“Who is Baby Rose?”

His shoulders stiffened.

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s what your mother wrote.”

He turned around slowly.

“Rose?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me.

“I thought you said you didn’t know.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why did you react like that?”

He said nothing.

And that was when I knew.

There was something about the name Rose that he had never told me.

I stepped closer.

“Who is Rose?”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“My grandmother.”

I blinked.

“Your grandmother?”

“Her name was Rose.”

“Why would your mother call our baby Rose?”

“I don’t know.”

“You just said it like you did.”

He looked exhausted.

“Mom always wanted a granddaughter named after Grandma Rose.”

“Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever tell me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

I laughed once.

There was nothing funny about it.

“She wrote ‘Baby Rose, coming home to Grandma.’”

Mark’s face went pale.

“I didn’t know she’d write that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure you never agreed to name the baby Rose?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

That pause hurt more than any answer.

Finally he said:

“She asked me.”

“And?”

“I told her we’d think about it.”

I stared at him.

“Think about it?”

“Jen, she was talking about a middle name.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“She wasn’t talking about a middle name.”

I held up the ultrasound.

“She thinks this baby is coming home with her.”

Mark rubbed both hands over his face.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“No.”

He looked at me.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“No.”

I took the ultrasound back.

“You’ve been saying that for thirteen years.”

His eyes hardened.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means every time your mother crosses a line, you tell me you’ll talk to her.”

I counted them on my fingers.

“When she took my grandmother’s skillet.”

“When she rearranged my kitchen.”

“When she went through my closet.”

“When she told Zoe she didn’t need to listen to me.”

“When she announced my pregnancy before I was ready.”

“And now she hit our daughter.”

I lowered my hand.

“Talking hasn’t worked.”

Mark looked toward the sleeping child.

“I didn’t know she hit her.”

“But you knew she wanted control.”

He didn’t answer.

“Didn’t you?”

Silence.

Then he whispered:

“Yes.”

I felt the room tilt.

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you known she wanted the baby?”

He looked down.

“A few months.”

My chest tightened.

“Months?”

“She started talking about it when we found out you were pregnant.”

“And you never told me?”

“I didn’t think she’d actually do anything.”

“She hired a contractor.”

“I know.”

“She ordered furniture.”

“I know.”

“She tried to get access to my medical records.”

His face changed.

“I didn’t know that.”

“She tried to book my delivery tour.”

He stared at me.

Then his phone rang again.

This time he answered.

“Mom?”

I heard Lorraine’s voice faintly through the phone.

His face became expressionless.

“What?”

A pause.

“Tonight?”

Another pause.

“That’s not happening.”

He looked at me.

Then his eyes widened.

“Mom, stop.”

I couldn’t hear her clearly.

But I heard one sentence.

Even from across the room.

“She isn’t going to be the mother forever.”

Mark’s face drained of color.

“What did you just say?”

Lorraine continued speaking.

He pulled the phone away from his ear.

Then looked at me.

“Mom, I’m hanging up.”

He ended the call.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he whispered:

“She’s coming here.”

“When?”

“She says she’s already outside.”

I walked to the window.

A dark SUV was parked across the street.

Its headlights were off.

My heart began pounding.

“Call Ray,” I said.

Mark looked at me.

“Jen…”

“Call him.”

Then something moved beside the SUV.

A second person stepped out.

A man.

He carried a large cardboard box.

He walked toward our side gate.

I recognized him.

He was the contractor.

The man Lorraine had hired to remodel my kitchen.

He stopped at the gate.

Then he looked directly at our house.

And lifted the box.

Across the front, written in black marker, were four words: