Chapter 5 - The Homecoming That Wasn't
Two weeks later, Megan was finally discharged from the hospital.
Her legs were still bandaged, and she had to use a walker to get around, but the color had slowly started returning to her cheeks. The physical wounds were healing, but the psychological scars ran deep. Every time a car door slammed outside our apartment building in Pilsen, Megan would instinctively flinch, her hands flying to her belly.
We had packed up our entire life in forty-eight hours.
We couldn't stay in the Pilsen apartment anymore. Every square inch of those hardwood floors, every corner of that bedroom, was tainted by the ghost of my mother's cruelty. We sold what little furniture we had, broke our lease, and moved into a quiet, sunlit two-bedroom cottage three hours north, near the shores of Lake Michigan.
My hardware store manager days were behind me; I took a remote consulting job so I could stay home, work from the dining room table, and make sure Megan was never, ever left alone.
The trial was set for late autumn. Evelyn Miller was being held without bail at the Cook County Department of Corrections, refusing all visits from her lawyer and insisting she was the victim of a "witch hunt" orchestrated by a manipulative daughter-in-law.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, exactly one month after our move, the mail carrier dropped a thick, heavy envelope through our new front door slot.
There was no return address, but I recognized the jagged, aggressive cursive immediately.
It was from my mother.
My hands trembled as I tore open the thick parchment paper. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in her dark, sloping handwriting.
Jacob,
You think you've won, don't you? You think moving three hours away and hiding behind a crippled wife and a newborn baby is going to keep you safe from the truth?
You always were just like your father—weak, pathetic, easily swayed by a pretty face and a pair of crocodile tears. But you should know something before the trial begins. Something I never planned on telling you, because I wanted to protect you from what kind of blood runs in your veins.
Megan isn't the victim you think she is. Check the second envelope at the bottom of the box.
My breath hitched. I reached into the box. At the bottom sat a second, smaller manila envelope, sealed with red wax.
With shaking fingers, I broke the seal and pulled out a stack of printed chat logs and bank statements dated from just three months ago.
May you like
They weren't between my mother and a stranger.
They were between Megan... and my mother.
