Chapter 7 - The Complaint
The knock came Monday morning.
Amy opened the door.
Two people stood outside.
One was a child welfare investigator.
The other was a police officer.
By the time Amy called me, she was crying so hard I could barely understand her.
I left work immediately.
When I arrived, Frederick was playing on the living room rug.
His fever was gone.
The investigator introduced herself as Michelle Carter.
She was professional.
Calm.
Almost apologetic.
“We received a report regarding possible neglect.”
Amy looked like someone had slapped her.
“What kind of neglect?”
Michelle checked her notes.
“Unsanitary living conditions.”
I looked around our clean living room.
“Anything else?”
“Failure to provide appropriate medical care for a sick child.”
Amy’s face crumpled.
That was when I knew.
Teresa.
Michelle explained that anonymous reports still had to be checked.
Then she asked to see Frederick’s room.
We cooperated.
She saw a stocked refrigerator.
A clean nursery.
Medication from urgent care.
Discharge paperwork.
A digital thermometer.
Appointment records.
Then Amy quietly told her what had happened at the birthday party.
I showed Michelle the footage.
She watched the entire clip.
Her expression changed.
“Can I document that?”
“Yes.”
She asked whether we knew who might have made the report.
I answered honestly.
“My mother threatened legal action yesterday.”
Michelle wrote something down.
Before leaving, she told us she had seen no immediate safety concern.
Amy waited until the door closed.
Then she collapsed against me.
“She called child services on us.”
“We don’t know for certain.”
Amy looked at me.
“Connor.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
We both knew.
That evening, my mother called from a blocked number.
I answered because I wanted the recording.
“Was your visit nice?”
My blood went cold.
“You reported us.”
“I’m worried about Frederick.”
“You ignored his fever at the party.”
“You’re twisting things.”
“You told Amy to keep serving people.”
“She exaggerates.”
“I have it on video.”
Silence.
Then Teresa spoke slowly.
“You still don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That woman is going to leave you.”
I laughed.
“And you think destroying my marriage will prevent that?”
“I’m protecting what belongs to my family.”
“Amy is my family.”
“She can divorce you tomorrow.”
“So can anyone.”
“She can take half the house.”
There it was.
The real obsession.
Money.
Property.
Control.
I lowered my voice.
“Is that why you wanted the quitclaim deed?”
Teresa did not answer.
“Is that why you applied for the loan?”
“You don’t know how hard I worked to make sure you had opportunities.”
“Those opportunities don’t make my paycheck yours.”
She inhaled sharply.
Then she said something strange.
“You wouldn’t have that house without me.”
“Yes, I would.”
“No.”
Her voice became almost satisfied.
“Ask the title company where your original down payment really came from.”
Then she hung up.
I stared at the phone.
Amy stood in the doorway.
“What did she mean?”
I didn’t know.
May you like
But for the first time, I wondered if the money my father had left me eight years earlier had another secret attached to it.
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