Carrying my newborn in my arms, I didn’t expect my grandpa to ask me this: “I gave you a car, right?”

The kind that makes your body remember it’s allowed to rest.

When I woke up, my phone was vibrating relentlessly on the nightstand like it was trying to jump off.

Missed calls.

Voicemails.

Texts.

All from my mother, my father, and Chloe.

The first messages were fake concern.

Ava, where are you?
Is Noah okay?
Don’t disappear. You’re scaring us.

Then the tone shifted as I kept scrolling.

Bring the baby back now.
You’re being irresponsible.
Who filled your head with this?
You’re unstable, Ava. You need help.

Then Chloe’s message hit like a knife wrapped in velvet:

If you keep acting like this, I might have no choice but to tell people you’re mentally unstable and not fit to raise a child. I don’t want to do that, though.

A threat.

Clean, calculated, wearing the mask of kindness.

My hands went cold.

They weren’t just trying to find me.

They were building a narrative.

A story to feed Lucas overseas.

A story to feed the court if they had to.

Ava: unstable mother. Abducted baby. Manipulated by rich grandfather.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.

A knock came at the door.

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