Chapter 18 - Deborah's Journal
The journal was handwritten.
Deborah had documented almost everything.
My pregnancy.
My relationship with Travis.
My medical appointments.
Even arguments she overheard.
The entries were obsessive.
Natalie refuses advice again.
Travis sided with her over Christmas plans.
Once the babies arrive, he will understand that family must come first.
But the later pages were worse.
Deborah had created what she called a “stability file.”
She planned to document every moment I appeared overwhelmed after childbirth.
Every sleepless night.
Every time I asked for help.
Every emotional reaction.
Then she intended to convince Travis that I had postpartum depression severe enough to make me unsafe.
There was no evidence I had such a condition.
She simply assumed exhaustion could be weaponized.
One sentence made Cassandra stop reading.
If Natalie cannot manage two babies, Travis will have no choice but to let me take over.
That was the real plan.
Control.
Not murder.
Not kidnapping.
Something quieter.
She wanted to dismantle me until I doubted my ability to mother my own children.
The day I went into labor had become her opportunity to prove Travis still belonged to her.
Instead, it destroyed everything she controlled.
At Deborah's next hearing, the journal became part of the record.
Her attorney argued it was private venting.
Prosecutors argued the writings supported a pattern of coercive behavior and attempts to interfere with evidence.
The judge extended the protective order.
Deborah was prohibited from contacting me or the babies.
Richard testified against her.
Lauren did too.
Deborah looked at her daughter with pure fury.
Lauren did not look away.
When the hearing ended, I passed Deborah in the courthouse corridor.
Two officers stood beside her.
She leaned toward me.
“You think you won.”
I stopped.
Cassandra touched my arm, warning me not to engage.
But I looked at Deborah.
“No.”
I said.
“I think my children survived.”
“That’s the difference between us.”
Her face twisted.
“I loved those babies before they were born.”
“No.”
“You loved what you thought they would give you.”
“Another way to control your son.”
For once, Deborah had no answer.
I walked away.
Three months later, my divorce became final.
I returned home and placed the signed decree inside a drawer.
Then I lifted Ava from her play mat.
Noah kicked happily beside her.
The neurologist had just given us the best news possible.
So far, Noah was meeting every developmental milestone.
There were no guarantees about the future.
But there was hope.
More than hope.
There was life.
That evening, someone rang the doorbell.
For one terrifying second, my body remembered everything.
Then I checked the screen.
It was Richard.
He held a cardboard box.
When I opened the door, he placed it at my feet.
“What is this?”
“Everything Deborah kept from Travis's childhood.”
I frowned.
“Why give it to me?”
“Because something inside belongs to your children.”
He reached into the box.
Then he handed me an old sealed envelope.
Across the front, in faded handwriting, were four words.
May you like
For my future grandchildren.
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