Chapter 2 - THURSDAY
I barely slept.
At six the next morning, Mark rolled over and reached for me.
I moved away.
He opened one eye.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
He had no idea I had seen the messages.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he was waiting to see what I knew.
That thought terrified me more.
I watched him shower, shave, dress, kiss my forehead, and leave for work like we were still a normal married couple.
“Love you,” he said at the door.
I looked at him.
For one crazy second, I wanted to scream.
Instead, I said, “Drive safe.”
As soon as his car disappeared, I called my best friend.
Rachel answered on the second ring.
“Hey, mama. Why are you calling me before seven? Are you in labor?”
“I think Mark and Diane are hiding something.”
Silence.
Then her voice changed.
“What happened?”
I told her everything.
The doctor’s office.
The strange questions.
Thursday.
The attorney.
Rachel didn’t dismiss me.
She didn’t tell me I was hormonal.
She said, “Take screenshots.”
“I only saw the previews.”
“Then get evidence.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know. But if an attorney is involved and your mother-in-law is telling your husband to hide it from you, you need to stop worrying about being polite.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Stop worrying about being polite.
I had spent years trying to be the reasonable one.
The calm one.
The daughter-in-law who didn’t cause problems.
Maybe that was exactly what had made me easy to corner.
I spent the morning pretending to clean.
Really, I searched.
Our desk.
Mark’s file cabinet.
Old mail.
The printer tray.
Nothing.
At noon I found a credit card receipt in his jacket pocket.
$750.
HARTMAN & LOWE FAMILY LAW.
My knees almost gave out.
Family law.
Not real estate.
Not taxes.
Family law.
I photographed it.
Then I searched the firm online.
Divorce.
Custody.
Emergency guardianship.
Parental fitness disputes.
Grandparent visitation.
My hands started shaking.
“No,” I whispered.
The baby shifted.
I pressed both palms to my belly.
“No. No, no, no.”
I called the firm.
“Hartman and Lowe, this is Bethany.”
I tried to steady my breathing.
“Hi. My name is Lena Carter. I believe my husband may be working with your office.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t confirm whether someone is a client.”
“What about Diane Carter?”
“I can’t confirm that either.”
“I understand.”
My voice cracked.
“Can I ask a general question?”
“Sure.”
“If a grandparent thinks a pregnant woman is mentally unstable, can she try to take custody of the baby?”
The receptionist paused again.
“That would depend on a lot of circumstances.”
“What kind?”
“I’m not an attorney.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Do you need a referral?”
“Yes.”
The word came out before I even thought about it.
She gave me a number.
I called.
Two hours later, I was sitting across from a family-law attorney named Melissa Grant.
I expected her to reassure me.
She didn’t.
She listened quietly.
Then she asked, “Have you ever been treated for depression or anxiety?”
“After my mom died, I went to therapy.”
“Medication?”
“For three months. Low-dose antidepressants. Four years ago.”
“Any hospitalizations?”
“No.”
“Self-harm?”
“Never.”
“Substance abuse?”
“No.”
“Criminal history?”
“No.”
“Any complications during pregnancy?”
“High blood pressure at one appointment. It went back down.”
She nodded.
“Has your husband ever accused you of being unstable?”
My mouth went dry.
“Not directly.”
“Indirectly?”
I thought about it.
You’re too sensitive.
You’re overreacting.
You’ve been irrational lately.
Pregnancy has made you difficult.
My stomach dropped.
“He’s been saying things.”
Melissa leaned back.
“Document everything.”
“Do you think they can take my baby?”
“Not because you went to therapy four years ago.”
I exhaled.
“But.”
My heart stopped.
“There’s a but?”
“There’s always a but in family law.”
She folded her hands.
“If someone is deliberately building a narrative about you, you need to know what that narrative is before it reaches a courtroom.”
“How do I do that?”
“Start with what you can legally access. Joint accounts. Shared documents. Messages sent to you. Medical records. Your own history.”
I nodded.
Then she added, “And be very careful what you say around people who may be recording you.”
I stared at her.
“Recording me?”
She didn’t blink.
“You came here because your instincts told you something was wrong.”
My throat tightened.
“Trust them.”
That evening, Mark came home carrying takeout.
He kissed my cheek.
“Thought you’d be tired.”
“Thanks.”
We ate in silence.
Halfway through dinner, he said, “Mom thinks you should see someone.”
I set down my fork.
“Someone?”
“A therapist.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“You’ve been… angry.”
I stared at him.
“I’m eight months pregnant.”
“I know.”
“Your mother threw my hospital bag on the floor.”
“There you go again.”
“What does that mean?”
He leaned back.
“You latch onto things.”
My pulse started pounding.
“Mark, do you think I’m unstable?”
His eyes flickered.
For half a second, I saw panic.
Then he smiled.
“No.”
“Then why would you say that?”
“I didn’t.”
“You just suggested I need therapy because I’m angry at your mother.”
He sighed.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
I pushed my chair back.
His phone buzzed on the table.
He grabbed it too quickly.
But not quickly enough.
I saw the screen.
Thursday, 10:00 AM.
HARTMAN & LOWE.
May you like
And underneath it:
DIANE + MARK — CUSTODY STRATEGY.
