Eventually, he admits he’s been afraid of confronting his wife. That she’s been different since the baby, mood swings, snapping at everything. “I thought it was just postpartum. I kept hoping it would pass.”
“It doesn’t pass if no one gets help,” I say. “And in the meantime, these kids suffer.”
“You’re choosing them,” I correct him. “And that’s the right choice.”
One week later, CPS gets involved—but not because I called. It turns out Lily confided in a school counselor before she left, and they filed a report. There’s a home visit. Interviews.
Daniel steps up. He tells the truth.
So does Zach.
So does Lily.
Their mother? She loses custody—temporarily, they say. Until she gets therapy. Parenting classes. She rages, calls me names, blames everyone else. But I don’t care anymore. I’ve spent too long grieving someone who never saw me as family.
Now I’m focused on the kids.
Weeks pass. Then months.
One evening, as we sit on the porch swing, Zach turns to me.
“You know,” he says, “when Mom said you weren’t our real grandma, I wanted to yell at her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t think you needed me to defend you. I thought you already knew.”
I blink back tears. “What did you think I knew?”
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