Chapter 3 - The Broken Pieces
The house was terribly quiet after the last car drove away.
The purple streamers still hung from the porch, and the princess cake sat on the picnic table, half-melted in the afternoon sun, its three wax candles burned down to stubby purple nubs.
Inside, Trevor sat at the kitchen island, his head resting in his hands. Dorothy sat across from him, staring blankly into a mug of black coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.
I was upstairs putting Hazel and Colton to bed.
Hazel was tucked under her lavender duvet, her tiara sitting on her nightstand beside a glass of water.
"Mommy?" she asked softly as I pulled the blanket up to her chin.
"Yes, baby?"
"Did I ruin my birthday?"
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I sat on the edge of her mattress and took her small, warm hand in mine. "No, Hazel. You didn't ruin anything. You were very brave today."
"Aunt Monica was being mean to you," Hazel murmured, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "She’s been mean to you for a long time. Every time she comes over, your voice gets small and your tummy hurts. I hate when your voice gets small."
I pulled her into a tight hug, burying my face in her hair, smelling the sweet strawberry shampoo from her morning bath. I thought I had been hiding it so well. I thought my bright smiles, my endless refilling of chip bowls, and my cheerful "everything is fine" attitude were protecting my children.
In reality, I had been teaching my daughter to tolerate abuse in her own home.
"My voice isn't going to be small anymore, Hazel," I promised her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I promise you. Now close your eyes."
When I finally came downstairs, the kitchen felt like a crime scene waiting for the investigators to arrive.
Dorothy looked up as my foot hit the last stair. Her face looked older, the fine lines around her mouth carved deeper by an afternoon of relentless reality.
"Bethany," Dorothy began, her voice hoarse. She stood up, taking a hesitant step toward me. "I... I don't even know what to say to you."
I stopped at the edge of the kitchen carpet. "You don't have to say anything tonight, Dorothy."
"No, I do," my mother-in-law insisted, tears filling her faded blue eyes. "I listened to her. When she came to my house crying, saying you were trying to control Trevor, saying you were jealous of her success... a part of me wanted to believe her. Because believing her meant my daughter wasn't sick. Believing her meant my family wasn't falling apart."
"Mom," Trevor groaned, rubbing his face. "Not now."
"No, Trevor, let me speak!" Dorothy turned back to me, her hands trembling. "I was horrible to you, Bethany. I questioned your motives. I made you feel unwelcome in my home during Sunday dinners. I let my own pride protect a lie, and it cost Hazel her eighth birthday."
I looked at Dorothy. I was angry—furious, even—about the last three months of icy shoulders, pointed remarks, and subtle exclusions. But as a nurse, I recognized shock when I saw it. Dorothy was grieving the daughter she thought she knew.
"Dorothy," I said softly, taking a seat at the island. "I don't care about the last three months right now. What I care about is what Monica said about your estate. What did she mean about client trust accounts?"
Trevor looked up, his jaw tight. "While you were upstairs, I called a friend from high school who works at the county court clerk's office. He ran a quick public search."
He slid his phone across the granite counter toward me.
On the screen was a public court document filed four days ago: NOTICE OF INTENT TO SUE FOR FRAUD AND MISAPPROPRIATION OF FUNDS.
The plaintiffs were two former high-profile clients of Monica’s law firm. The defendant was Monica Morrison.
"She didn't just lose her job, Bethany," Trevor said, his voice dropping into a hollow, terrifying whisper. "She embezzled over two hundred thousand dollars from her firm's escrow accounts over the last eighteen months to fund her drinking, her lifestyle, and her day-trading losses. And she used Mom’s name as a co-sign on three separate short-term hard-money loans to cover her tracks."
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Dorothy gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "She... she what?"
"Your house, Mom," Trevor said, looking his mother straight in the eye. "The family home Dad left you. Monica put a second mortgage lien on it six weeks ago using a forged power of attorney."
