Chapter 5
The next week was a blur of police statements, lawyer meetings, and constant monitoring of Lila’s condition.
My mom had been released on bail, with a strict no-contact order that kept her 500 feet away from us, the hospital, and our house. But I still checked the locks twice every night, still jumped at every loud noise.
My dad had kept his word. He’d moved into a hotel, leaving my mom alone in the family home, calling me every night to check in, to ask how Lila was, how the baby was.
It was during one of those calls that he told me my mom had left her phone at the hospital the night of the attack. The police had given it to him, and he’d found things on it. Things he thought I should see.
He brought it to me the next day, his hands shaking as he handed it over.
“I didn’t read all of it,” he said. “Just enough to know… I didn’t know her at all.”
I unlocked the phone, my stomach tight. The first thing I opened was her text messages.
Texts to my aunt Linda, dated months back.
Mom: He’s choosing that girl over me. She’s pregnant, she’s going to trap him forever.
Aunt Linda: You have to do something. You can’t let her take your son.
Mom: I have a plan. If the baby is gone, she’ll have no reason to stay. He’ll come back to me.
Aunt Linda: Good. Just make it look like an accident.
More texts. To her friends. To people I didn’t even know. All of them saying the same thing. Lila was a gold digger. The baby was a trap. She had to be stopped.
I scrolled further, and my blood ran cold.
Texts from my mom to herself. Notes, plans, lists of ways to make Lila miscarry. Caffeine pills slipped into her coffee. Extra stress. A “fall” down the stairs.
The suitcase attack was just the last in a long line of plans she’d been making for months.
I looked up at my dad, the phone slipping from my hand onto the table.
“Did you know Aunt Linda was helping her?” I asked, my voice hollow.
He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “I had no idea. She called me last week, asked how you were. She acted like nothing was wrong.”
I picked up the phone again, scrolling to the call log. Dozens of calls between my mom and Aunt Linda, some lasting hours, all in the weeks leading up to the attack.
This wasn’t just my mom. This was my whole family, or at least parts of it, conspiring against the woman I loved, against my own child.
“I’m adding Aunt Linda to the no-contact order,” I said, standing up. “And I’m giving these texts to the police. Conspiracy. Whatever they can charge her with.”
My dad nodded, wiping his face. “Do whatever you have to. I’ll testify. I’ll tell them everything. I don’t care if it’s my own sister. She helped try to hurt your baby.”
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For the first time since that night in the hospital, I felt a flicker of hope. My dad was on our side. We had the texts. We had the video. We had proof.
Justice wasn’t a guarantee. But for the first time, it felt possible.
