“You’re letting them throw me out?”
Jacob’s voice was hollow.
“I’m letting them call the police.”
Her face changed completely.
The arrogance vanished.
“Jacob.”
He said nothing.
“Jacob, I’m your sister.”
He looked at her as if she had become a stranger wearing familiar skin.
“Emma is my wife.”
Brenda’s gaze flicked to me.
For a moment, there was pure hatred in it.
Then security escorted her out.
Diane tried to follow, but Robert grabbed her arm.
“No,” he said.
His voice was quiet, but I had never heard such finality from him.
Diane stared at him.
Robert looked at me.
“I am sorry,” he said.
It was not enough.
Nothing would ever be enough.
But unlike the others, he did not ask me to forgive him.
The police arrived within the hour.
They took statements from Jacob, from his parents, from the doctor, from the paramedics, and eventually from me. I told them everything I remembered. The cider. The lock. Brenda’s words. The curtain closing.
When I described that part, Jacob stood in the corner with both hands clasped behind his neck, staring at the floor.
Diane cried silently.
Robert did not comfort her.
Later that night, after everyone was forced to leave, Jacob sat beside my hospital bed. The room was dim except for the glow of the monitor. Every few seconds, the baby’s heartbeat filled the silence, fast and steady.
Jacob took my hand.
This time, I let him.
“I failed you,” he said.
I was too tired to argue with the truth.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes.
“I kept thinking I was keeping peace.”
“You were keeping Brenda comfortable.”
He nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“I know.”
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“There’s something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Lily recorded part of it.”
I stared at him.
“She had her tablet,” Jacob said. “She was playing some game in the hallway. When she saw you outside, she started recording because she thought adults would believe her if she had proof.”
He unlocked his phone with shaking hands.
“I watched it once,” he said. “I don’t think you should watch it right now.”
“I need to know.”
He hesitated, then pressed play.
The video was shaky, filmed from behind the kitchen island. At first, I saw only Brenda standing near the balcony door, her wineglass in one hand. My own voice came faintly through the glass.
Please.
The curtain was half-open.
Brenda watched me kneeling outside.
Then Diane entered the frame.
My breath caught.
In the video, Diane looked toward the balcony and whispered, “Brenda, this has gone too far.”
Brenda replied, “Five more minutes.”
Diane wrung her hands.
“She’s pregnant.”
“And she milks it every second.”
Then came my voice again, weaker.
The baby. Please.
Diane stepped toward the door.
Brenda grabbed her wrist.
“Mom,” she said, cold and low, “you said yourself she needed to learn her place.”
Diane froze.
The video shook as Lily shifted behind the counter.
Then Diane looked at me through the glass.
She saw me.
She saw everything.
And she did not open the door.
Instead, she turned away.
That was when Brenda pulled the curtain shut.
The video ended with Lily whispering, “Aunt Brenda is being bad,” before running down the hall.
I could not breathe.
Jacob stopped the video, his face white.
“I didn’t know Mom saw you,” he said.
I believed him.
But belief did not soften the damage.
The next morning, the doctors confirmed the contractions had slowed. The baby remained stable, though I would need bed rest and close monitoring. Police came again. This time, they asked about Diane too.
By noon, Brenda had been arrested.
By evening, Diane had stopped calling Jacob and started calling Robert instead.
And by the following morning, the story had already spread through the family like fire.
But the most shocking thing came three days later.
Jacob returned to my hospital room holding a sealed evidence bag the police had shown him during questioning. Inside was a small amber bottle with the label half-scratched off.
“They found it in Brenda’s purse,” he said.
I stared at it.
Misoprostol.
My hands went cold.
“That’s not all,” Jacob said.
His voice had changed. It was low, stunned, almost afraid.
“There were text messages.”
I looked up.
“Between Brenda and who?”
Jacob swallowed.
“My mother.”
A chill moved through me.
He sat down slowly, as if his legs could no longer hold him.
“They weren’t just talking about me being too soft with you,” he said. “They were talking about the baby.”
The monitor beeped steadily beside me.
I placed both hands over my stomach.
“What did they say?”
Jacob’s eyes lifted to mine.
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