Patrick laughed.
“And what will you do? Sue us? You came into this family with nothing. You are nothing.”
My daughters, Grace and Abigail, were crying. The twins, Samuel and David, clung to my skirt. Sophie was warm with fever, and the rain was making everything worse.
Margaret kicked one of the bags. Clothes spilled into the mud.
“We changed the locks,” she said. “Come back, and we’ll tell the police you’re unstable. A broke widow with six children? No one will believe you over us.”
I looked up at the house. Curtains moved. Relatives were watching from inside, but nobody came out to help.
For fourteen years, I had stayed quiet for Andrew’s sake. I ignored their insults. I swallowed their judgment. I let them treat me like an outsider.
But that night, I was done.
I took Benjamin’s hand and led my children toward the street. I had no plan and nowhere to go. All I had was my children, the rain, and a yellow folder in the diaper bag—the folder Andrew had given me before he died.
“If my parents ever try to push you out,” he had whispered, “take this to Rebecca Stone. Don’t open it until you’re in her office. Promise me.”
I stopped in the driveway and turned back.
