Panic surged through me. “My baby—where’s my baby?” I cried out, my voice cracking. A nurse rushed in, her expression tight. “Please, Mrs. Carter, calm down. You’re recovering from trauma—”
“Where’s my baby?” I screamed, trying to sit up. Pain shot through my abdomen, and the nurse gently but firmly pressed me back. Her eyes softened. “You lost a lot of blood,” she whispered. “But the baby… he’s alive. He’s in the neonatal unit. Rest. He’s being monitored.”
Relief and heartbreak collided inside me. My baby was alive. But then—where was Ethan?
Hours later, a doctor came in. Behind him stood my husband, holding flowers. His face was composed, too composed. “Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “you scared us.”
Us. The word made bile rise in my throat. I wanted to ask why he hadn’t helped me, why he laughed while I was drowning. But something in his expression—cold, rehearsed—stopped me. The doctor explained that I had gone into early labor from the trauma. My son, Noah, was premature but stable. I listened, barely breathing, as Ethan nodded like everything was fine.
That night, when the hospital quieted, I slipped out of bed. I needed to see my baby. The NICU was dimly lit, machines humming softly. Through the glass, I saw him—tiny, fragile, wrapped in tubes and blankets. My heart ached. I pressed my palm against the window, tears spilling freely.
Then, behind me, a reflection moved. Ethan.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low.
I turned, my jaw trembling. “Why, Ethan? Why didn’t you help me?”
He stared for a long moment before stepping closer, his tone almost pitying. “You ruined everything. That money was supposed to go to Mom. You embarrassed me.”
“Embarrassed you?” I choked. “I almost died—your son almost died!”
His eyes darkened. “You’ll never understand,” he murmured, and walked away.
Something inside me shattered.
The next morning, I overheard two nurses whispering. “It’s strange,” one said, “the husband insisted on filling out all the paperwork himself. Even took the discharge documents early.” My heart pounded. What paperwork? I wasn’t ready to leave.
That afternoon, Ethan returned. “Good news,” he said. “You can come home tomorrow.”
“But Noah—”
“He’ll stay for observation,” he interrupted smoothly. “You need rest.”
Something in his tone chilled me. That night, I pretended to sleep as he gathered my belongings into a bag, slipping something from my bedside table into his pocket. I waited until he left, then searched the drawer. Gone—the flash drive where I’d saved my baby’s ultrasound videos and medical details.
The next morning, a nurse informed me that Ethan had already signed my discharge papers. “Your husband said he’d handle everything,” she smiled. But I wasn’t going anywhere without Noah.
When I went to the NICU, Noah’s bed was empty. My breath stopped. “Where is he?” I gasped. The nurse frowned. “He was transferred early this morning. Your husband said you’d approved it.”
I ran. I didn’t know where, just away. Down hallways, past the reception, out into the gray morning. My mind was screaming one thought over and over: He took my baby.
At home, the front door was locked. Curtains drawn. The balloons from the baby shower still clung limply to the patio. The pool water glistened—a cruel reflection of that day. I pounded on the door. “Ethan! Where’s Noah?”
No answer.
Then, from behind me, came Marlene’s voice. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
I turned. She stood there, smiling faintly, a bruise-like shadow beneath her makeup. “He’s where he belongs,” she said. “With family.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were never fit to be a mother,” she sneered. “You’re unstable. Everyone saw what happened—you attacked me first. The police have my statement.”
My knees went weak. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She held up a phone, playing a video. It showed me screaming, clutching my stomach—but from the angle, it looked like I’d lunged at her first. Edited. Manipulated.
I realized, with dawning horror, that the entire nightmare had been planned. The money, the public humiliation, the fall—it was all a setup to destroy me, to take Noah away.
I fled. Checked hotels, motels, even Ethan’s office. Nothing. For weeks, I searched. Then, one night, a message appeared in my email. No subject. No text. Just a photo—Noah, sleeping in a strange crib, a blue blanket covering him. The timestamp: three hours earlier.
The metadata said it was taken from an address on the outskirts of Pasadena. My hands shook as I drove through the night. The property was isolated, surrounded by overgrown trees. A faint light glowed through a window. I crept closer, my heart pounding.
Inside, I saw Ethan—sitting beside a crib, rocking it gently. Marlene was there too, whispering something. And on the table beside them was a stack of paperwork labeled “Adoption Clearance – Private Transfer.”
They were selling him.
Rage overtook fear. I kicked the door open, screaming, “Give me my baby!” Ethan lunged toward me, but I grabbed the nearest object—a lamp—and swung. It shattered, sending sparks across the floor. Marlene shrieked. In the chaos, I snatched Noah from the crib, clutching him to my chest.
Ethan grabbed my arm, snarling, “You’ll never get away—” But before he could finish, the lamp’s cord caught fire. Flames spread fast. Marlene screamed as smoke filled the room. I ran. Out the door, through the dark, into the cold night air.
I didn’t stop driving until I saw the city lights. Noah whimpered softly, and I whispered, “It’s over. You’re safe.”
But it wasn’t over.
Weeks later, news broke: House Fire Kills Local Couple — No Foul Play Suspected. Ethan and Marlene. The police called it an accident. I never came forward. I couldn’t. I changed my name, moved to Oregon, and started over.
Noah grew stronger every day. Sometimes, when he laughed, I caught a glimpse of Ethan in his eyes and felt a chill. One night, as I tucked him in, he giggled and said a word I’d never taught him: “Grandma.”
My breath caught. “What did you say?”
He pointed toward the dark corner of the room. “Grandma’s here. She says she’s sorry.”
The light flickered.
When I looked back—Noah was smiling, eyes glinting faintly under the lamp glow. And from somewhere in the house came the faint sound of water rippling… like a pool.