Chapter 2
Ryan stared at Jessica as if she had spoken in another language.
“My what?”
Jessica’s lips trembled.
“Your biological mother.”
Margaret stepped toward her.
“You’re confused.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You were six years old.”
“I remember enough.”
Ryan kept one arm around me while he faced his sister.
“You told me Mom gave birth to both of us.”
“That’s what she made everyone believe.”
The front door burst open.
Two paramedics rushed inside, followed by a police officer.
The room exploded into questions.
“What did she swallow?”
“How much?”
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“Is the substance still here?”
Margaret pointed at Jessica.
“She’s lying. She has always been unstable.”
Jessica moved between Margaret and the broken jar.
“Don’t let her touch that.”
One paramedic helped me onto a stretcher while the other collected the cup and pieces of glass.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“It tasted bitter. My tongue feels numb.”
His expression tightened.
“We’re moving now.”
Ryan climbed into the ambulance beside me.
Jessica tried to follow, but the officer stopped her.
“You need to stay and give a statement.”
Ryan looked at his sister.
“Tell them everything.”
Margaret crossed her arms.
“I have done nothing wrong.”
Jessica stared at her.
“You said the same thing after Sarah disappeared.”
Ryan flinched at the name.
“Sarah?”
But the ambulance doors closed before Jessica could answer.
The ride to the hospital felt endless.
My contractions came hard and fast.
The monitor strapped around my stomach began making sharp, uneven sounds.
Ryan held my hand.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m trying.”
He leaned close.
“You and the baby are going to be okay.”
He said it with confidence, but his eyes were full of terror.
A paramedic inserted an IV.
“Emily, did you swallow a mouthful?”
“Maybe less. I coughed most of it out.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.”
Another contraction ripped through me.
I cried out and squeezed Ryan’s hand.
The monitor alarm changed.
“What does that mean?” Ryan demanded.
“We need to get her into labor and delivery.”
The ambulance had barely stopped when the doors opened.
A medical team rushed me through the emergency entrance.
Dr. Patel, my obstetrician, met us in the hallway.
“What happened?”
“My mother-in-law forced something into my mouth.”
“What kind of substance?”
“We don’t know.”
Ryan showed her a photograph he had taken of the liquid before we left.
Dr. Patel glanced at it.
“Call toxicology. Full panel. Continuous fetal monitoring.”
She turned to me.
“Emily, your baby’s heart rate is dropping during contractions.”
My fear became cold and immediate.
“Is she in danger?”
“We’re going to find out.”
They moved me into a delivery room.
Nurses attached more monitors.
Ryan stood beside the bed, still holding my hand, but his phone kept vibrating.
Jessica.
Police.
His mother.
A number he did not recognize.
He ignored all of them.
Dr. Patel examined me.
“You were two centimeters dilated at your appointment yesterday.”
“What am I now?”
“Six.”
Ryan looked at her.
“That fast?”
“Yes.”
Another alarm sounded.
The baby’s heartbeat dipped again.
Dr. Patel watched the screen.
“The substance may have triggered very strong contractions. We need to slow them down and stabilize the baby.”
A nurse injected medication into my IV.
For several minutes, the contractions softened.
Then a burning pain spread across my lower back.
I felt warm fluid beneath me.
“My water broke.”
Dr. Patel checked again.
The color drained from her face.
“There’s blood.”
Ryan’s grip tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It could mean the placenta is separating.”
She pressed a button on the wall.
“We may need an emergency delivery.”
My entire body began shaking.
“No. She isn’t ready.”
“You’re thirty-nine weeks. She is ready. Right now, getting her out may be the safest choice.”
The door opened.
A toxicologist entered with a tablet.
“The preliminary test from the residue is concerning.”
Ryan turned toward him.
“What was in it?”
“We identified a very high concentration of several herbs associated with uterine stimulation. There also appears to be a prescription medication in the mixture.”
“What medication?”
“We’re confirming it.”
“Could it hurt my wife?”
“Yes.”
The answer was simple.
It broke something inside Ryan.
He looked away and covered his mouth.
I had never seen him cry before.
Not when his father died.
Not when we lost our first pregnancy at ten weeks.
But tears filled his eyes now.
“This was planned,” he whispered.
Dr. Patel moved quickly.
“Emily, the baby’s heart rate isn’t recovering properly. We need to perform a C-section.”
I nodded.
“Do it.”
Ryan bent over me.
“I’m coming with you.”
A nurse handed him scrubs.
As they prepared me for surgery, his phone vibrated again.
This time the screen showed Jessica’s name and the words URGENT—PLEASE ANSWER.
He answered.
“What?”
Jessica was crying.
“The police searched Mom’s purse.”
“And?”
“They found forged hospital forms.”
Ryan’s eyes shifted toward me.
“What kind of forms?”
“Temporary guardianship papers for Emily’s baby.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying this wasn’t only about making Emily go into labor.”
Ryan’s face became rigid.
“Then what was it about?”
Jessica lowered her voice.
“She planned to take the baby.”
A nurse pushed my bed toward the operating room.
Ryan walked beside me.
“Why would she think she could do that?”
“Because she did it before.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
Ryan stopped for half a second.
A nurse urged him forward.
Jessica continued.
“The woman’s name was Sarah Miller. She was twenty years old. Mom brought her the same black mixture, and Sarah went into labor early.”
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know the whole truth.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
“I heard Mom and Dad arguing that night. Dad kept saying, ‘We can’t keep her baby.’”
Ryan’s knees nearly buckled.
I reached for him from the moving bed.
He caught my hand.
Jessica took a shaky breath.
“The next morning, there was a newborn in our house.”
Ryan closed his eyes.
“And Sarah?”
“Mom said she had left Atlanta.”
“What did she tell Sarah?”
“I think she told her the baby died.”
The operating-room doors opened.
Dr. Patel looked at Ryan.
“Mr. Carter, you need to end the call.”
Ryan’s voice dropped.
“Where is Margaret now?”
“With the police.”
“Make sure she doesn’t leave.”
“I’ll try.”
“No. Don’t try.”
Ryan looked straight ahead as tears ran down his face.
“Make sure she doesn’t get near my wife or daughter again.”
He hung up.
Inside the operating room, everything moved fast.
Bright lights.
Metal trays.
Masked faces.
Someone placed a screen across my body.
The anesthesiologist told me I would feel pressure.
Ryan sat beside my head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For not seeing who she was.”
“This is not your fault.”
“She raised me.”
“That does not make her choices yours.”
Dr. Patel’s voice became urgent.
“We have significant placental separation.”
I turned toward Ryan.
“What’s happening?”
He forced himself to smile.
“They’re getting our daughter.”
The pressure became stronger.
Then the room went quiet.
Too quiet.
I waited for a cry.
None came.
“Why isn’t she crying?”
Ryan looked over the screen.
A medical team carried a tiny, motionless body to a nearby table.
“Ryan.”
He stood, but a nurse stopped him.
“Give them room.”
“Is my baby breathing?”
Nobody answered.
My chest tightened.
“Ava!”
We had chosen her name two months earlier.
“Ava, please.”
A doctor rubbed her back while another placed a mask over her face.
Seconds stretched into an eternity.
Then a small cry cut through the room.
It was weak.
But it was there.
Ryan collapsed back into the chair and pressed his forehead against mine.
“That’s her.”
Ava cried again, louder this time.
I sobbed.
“Let me see her.”
A nurse brought her close for only a moment.
She was tiny and red, with dark hair pressed against her head.
I kissed her forehead.
Then they carried her toward the neonatal unit.
“Why are they taking her?”
“She needs help breathing,” Dr. Patel said. “Ryan can go with her.”
“No.”
Ryan looked torn.
I squeezed his hand.
“Go with our daughter.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“You’re not leaving me. You’re staying with her.”
He kissed me.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He followed the neonatal team out.
As the surgeons continued working, I heard Dr. Patel ask for more blood.
The anesthesiologist adjusted something near my shoulder.
“Emily, we’re going to give you medicine to help you rest.”
“Am I bleeding?”
“We’re controlling it.”
“Tell Ryan—”
“He knows you love him.”
The lights blurred.
The last thing I heard was the monitor beside me.
Then everything disappeared.
When I woke, the room was dim.
My throat hurt.
My stomach felt as if it had been torn apart.
Ryan sat beside me with his head lowered.
There was dried blood on the cuff of his shirt.
“Ryan?”
His head snapped up.
He took my hand.
“You’re awake.”
“Ava?”
“She’s stable.”
“Stable isn’t the same as okay.”
“She needed oxygen, but she’s breathing on her own now.”
I began to cry.
Ryan leaned over me.
“You lost a lot of blood, but Dr. Patel stopped it. She said you’re going to recover.”
“What was in the mixture?”
His jaw tightened.
“Toxicology confirmed a labor-inducing drug. It wasn’t prescribed to you.”
“Margaret put it in there?”
“The police believe so.”
“Where is she?”
“In custody.”
Relief passed through me.
Then I saw that Ryan was holding a folded photograph.
“Is that Sarah?”
He nodded.
Jessica had sent it.
The photograph showed a young woman standing outside a small Atlanta apartment.
She had brown hair, a soft smile, and Ryan’s unmistakable blue eyes.
On the back, someone had written three words.
Sarah and Ryan, 2000.
My husband stared at the picture for a long time.
Then he turned it over again.
May you like
Beneath the first line was another sentence, written in different ink.
Margaret told Sarah her son was dead.
