Chapter 5
They found Mom three days later.
Hiding in a cheap motel on the edge of town, two counties over.
She’d paid cash for the room, used a fake name, but the clerk recognized her from the warrant photo when he went to leave for the night.
She didn’t fight when they arrested her.
Just stood there, hands cuffed behind her back, staring at the wall like she couldn’t believe she’d been caught.
The prosecutor called me that afternoon.
Her voice was crisp, no-nonsense.
“We’re charging her with three felonies,” she said.
“Aggravated assault of a pregnant person, harassment with a deadly threat, and violation of a protective order.
We’re also looking at forgery charges for the fake will.
If convicted on all counts, she’s looking at 15 to 20 years.
No parole eligibility for at least 10.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to sit down.
10 years minimum.
She’d be in her 70s by the time she got out.
Old.
Weak.
No longer a threat to us.
To the baby.
Olivia was sitting on the couch beside me, her legs propped up on pillows, when I hung up.
I told her what the prosecutor said.
She closed her eyes, and a single tear ran down her cheek.
“Finally,” she whispered.
“Finally, we can breathe.”
The next two weeks were the calmest we’d had in months.
Olivia’s bed rest ended.
Dr. Hale said the baby was perfect, growing fast, strong as an ox.
We started working on the nursery again.
The room Mom had “helped” paint, the room where she’d pushed Olivia into the bookshelf that day she’d “slipped on the rug.”
We repainted it soft blue.
Put up a mobile of stars above the crib.
Hung a framed photo of Dad on the wall, his smile wide, his arm around 10-year-old me at my first baseball game.
I went back to work part time, but I brought my laptop home most days.
Sat at the kitchen table while Olivia napped on the couch, one eye on the camera feeds, one on my spreadsheets.
We didn’t talk about Mom much.
Not unless we had to.
Lawyer calls.
Court dates.
Paperwork to sign.
Every time her name came up, Olivia would flinch a little, her hand going to her stomach.
So we kept it short.
Kept it business.
Then, three weeks before Olivia’s due date, the lawyer called again.
“Bad news,” he said.
His voice was tight.
“Martha’s lawyer filed a motion.
Says the will your dad left is invalid.
Claims he was mentally incompetent when he signed it.
Says he was on too much pain medication, that you manipulated him into cutting her out.
They want a jury trial to decide who gets the money.”
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white.
“Of course she does,” I said.
“Even in jail, she can’t stop.
It’s never enough for her.”
“The good news is,” the lawyer continued, “we have the letter your dad wrote.
We have the testimony of his doctor, who says he was completely lucid the day he signed the will.
We have the fake will she tried to pass off as real.
It’s an uphill battle for her.
But it means another court date.
Another delay.
And she’s going to try to paint you and Olivia as the villains.
Gold diggers who stole her inheritance.
You need to be ready for that.”
I hung up and went into the nursery.
Olivia was folding tiny onesies, her back to the door.
I wrapped my arms around her from behind, resting my hands light on her stomach.
The baby kicked against my palm.
Hard.
Strong.
“Lawyer called,” I said.
I told her about the motion.
About the trial.
About what Mom’s lawyer would say about us.
Olivia went still in my arms.
Then she turned around, her eyes hard, a fire in them I hadn’t seen since the day I’d ripped the blanket off her legs.
“Let her,” she said.
Her voice was steady.
No fear.
Just anger.
“Let her say whatever she wants.
We have the truth.
We have the letter.
We have the recordings.
We have each other.
She can’t take that from us.
Not anymore.
I’m done being scared of her.”
I kissed her forehead.
Proud of her.
So proud it hurt.
“You’re right,” I said.
“We’ve got this.”
The probate trial was two weeks later.
Three days of testimony.
Three days of sitting in a cold, wood-paneled courtroom, listening to Mom’s lawyer call us liars.
Call Olivia a gold digger who’d married me for money.
Call me a weak, manipulated son who’d turned on his own mother for a younger woman.
Mom sat at the defense table, her hair done perfect, a black dress tailored tight, dabbing at fake tears with a white handkerchief every time her lawyer talked about how “betrayed” she was.
Our lawyer didn’t hold back.
He put Dad’s doctor on the stand.
He testified that Dad was of sound mind the day he signed the will.
Sharp.
Funny.
Completely himself.
He put Ryan on the stand.
Ryan testified about Olivia coming to him, scared, desperate, too afraid to go to the police.
About the bruises she’d shown him in the grocery store parking lot.
He put the voice memos on for the jury.
One by one.
Mom’s voice, cold and cruel, threatening to push Olivia down the stairs.
Threatening to kill the baby.
Threatening to make it look like an accident.
I watched the jury’s faces as they listened.
Shock.
Disgust.
Anger.
Mom’s face went whiter and whiter with every memo that played.
Her perfect mask cracking.
Then our lawyer put me on the stand.
He asked me about the day I’d found the bruises.
About the fake will Mom had waved in my face.
About the letter Dad had written.
I told them everything.
Every stupid, blind mistake I’d made.
Every moment I’d doubted Olivia.
Every moment I’d believed the woman who’d raised me over the woman I loved.
I didn’t hold back.
I let them see my shame.
My guilt.
My love for my wife and my unborn son.
When I finished, the jury was quiet.
The judge called a 15-minute recess.
I walked out of the courtroom, Olivia’s hand in mine, and we stood by the window overlooking the courthouse steps.
She squeezed my hand.
“You did good,” she said.
“Really good.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t speak.
My throat was too tight.
Fifteen minutes later, we went back in.
The jury filed in.
Their faces were unreadable.
The foreman stood up, a piece of paper in his hand.
“We find in favor of the plaintiff,” he said.
“The last will and testament of Thomas Carter is valid.
The entire $4.2 million estate goes to Ethan Carter, to be held in trust for his family.”
The courtroom erupted in quiet murmurs.
I looked over at Mom.
Her perfect mask was gone.
Her face was twisted into a snarl, pure rage, as the bailiff led her out of the room, back to jail to await her criminal trial.
She didn’t look at me.
She didn’t look at anyone.
Just stared straight ahead, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
We walked out of the courthouse into the warm Texas sun.
Olivia leaned her head on my shoulder, her hand resting on her stomach.
“We won,” she said.
Soft.
Disbelieving.
I wrapped my arm around her.
“We won,” I said.
May you like
“Now let’s go home.
And wait for our boy.”
