Chapter 3 - The Story Grant Had Been Writing About Me
Grant controlled the family portal because he had created the account after Owen was born.
I never questioned it.
He handled insurance paperwork. I handled appointments.
That division seemed practical until Dr. Sterling printed the messages.
Rachel repeatedly checks temperature and panics.
Rachel wants unnecessary visits.
Rachel has significant anxiety since delivery.
Rachel may be giving medication too frequently.
The last statement made my stomach turn.
I had never exceeded the prescribed schedule.
Grant knew that because we kept a medication chart on the refrigerator.
Or I thought we did.
When I returned home briefly with a child-protection caseworker named Lauren Pierce, the chart was gone.
So was Owen’s original medicine bottle.
Patricia’s overnight bag had disappeared from the guest room.
Grant stood in the driveway while we collected clothes for the children.
“You’re making me look like I poisoned my own son.”
“I asked whether you knew.”
“I knew Mom used something else once.”
Saying once was his first mistake.
I had never told him how many doses the hospital suspected Owen missed.
Lauren noticed too.
“How many times did you see your mother substitute something?”
Grant folded his arms.
“I don’t remember.”
I looked through the kitchen window.
On the counter sat the bottle sterilizer. Beside it was the plastic syringe Patricia used every evening.
I remembered asking once why it smelled different from the medicine I gave Owen in the morning.
Patricia laughed.
“Your nose is still weird from pregnancy.”
Grant heard her.
He said nothing.
The first real consequence came that afternoon.
Children Services established a temporary safety plan. Patricia could not have contact with either child. Grant could see Owen and Sophie only with another approved adult present until investigators determined his role.
I took the children to my sister Megan’s townhouse in Westerville.
Leaving meant giving up our house, at least temporarily.
It also meant calling my nursing manager and admitting I could not cover my weekend shifts.
On our first night at Megan’s, Sophie climbed into my bed carrying the teddy bear.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Am I bad because I recorded Grandma?”
“You didn’t record her on purpose.”
“I was recording Owen.”
She explained that she liked recording his little noises so he could hear them “when he’s big.”
Then she said something that made me sit upright.
“Grandma always waited until Daddy came home before she used the other bottle.”
If Patricia believed she was merely helping, why did she wait for Grant?
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By morning, I had decided I wanted every pharmacy record, portal message, and medication log reviewed.
I was done accepting reassurance from the people whose reassurance had nearly put my son in intensive care.
