Two hours after my pregnant daughter d.ied, my phone rang.
Part 3
My mind tried to reject what I was reading, like my eyes had misfired. But the words didn’t change. They sat there—clinical, transactional—like my daughter’s pregnancy had been a contract instead of a life.
Karen clicked deeper into the thread. Attached documents. A scanned signature. A timeline. And bank transfer confirmations in amounts that made my stomach twist.
“Why would Emily sign something like this?” I whispered.
Karen shook her head. “Maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she felt trapped. Look—there are messages from Emily too.”
I leaned closer, and there it was: my daughter’s writing, shaky and pleading in places.
“I don’t want him in the delivery room.”
“He keeps saying I ‘owe him’ because he paid off the credit cards.”
“If I tell my mom, she’ll hate me for staying.”
My hands went numb. Emily hadn’t wanted me to hate her. Emily had wanted me to be proud. And while I was busy planning a baby shower, she had been quietly living in fear.
Then Karen found a draft email—never sent—addressed to me.
“Mom, if something happens to me, please don’t believe Jason. He’s not who you think. He’s been talking to someone about ‘getting the baby early’ and I’m scared.”
I pressed my palm to my mouth to keep from making a sound that might break me in half.
A knock hit the apartment door.
Three sharp taps. Too confident to be a neighbor.
Karen’s eyes snapped to mine. “Did you tell him you were here?”
Leave a Comment