Being told she could not breastfeed because her milk was supposedly “bad.”
Being ridiculed whenever she asked for medical help.
Having her phone taken away.
Then came the worst detail.
When the detective asked if anyone had physically stopped her from leaving, Hannah slowly lifted both arms.
Dark bruises wrapped around both wrists.
“I tried to leave with my son,” she whispered.
“They stopped me.”
My mother exploded.
“She’s lying!”
I looked at her and barely recognized the woman who had raised me.
Then Hannah exposed the reason behind everything.
“It was about the house.”
The room became quiet.
She turned toward me.
“Your mother said I stole you from her. She said if I disappeared, you’d finally understand who really belonged in your life.”
Suddenly, every conversation from the past year snapped into place.
Every demand.
Every guilt trip.
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