Chapter 1 - THE PAPERS IN THE GRASSMy six-week-old daughter was already in the air when I understood my mother had actually let go.
“Lily!”
The pink blanket flashed against the blue Wisconsin sky.
Below her was the stone fire pit.
My father moved before I did.
James threw himself across the patio, arms outstretched, and caught Lily inches above the stone rim.
Her cry cut through the backyard.
I lunged toward them.
Rebecca slammed one hand into my shoulder.
Hard.
I staggered backward.
“You’ve always taken what was supposed to be mine.”
For half a second, I couldn’t understand what my sister was talking about.
Then I looked at my mother.
Helen stood beside the fire pit in her light-blue blouse, perfectly composed.
“You just had to make sure Rebecca wasn’t first, didn’t you?”
“Give me my baby.”
Dad already had Lily tight against his chest, supporting her head with both arms.
She was crying.
Moving.
Breathing.
That was all I could process.
“Dad.”
“I’ve got her.”
“Give her to me.”
He started toward me.
Mom moved between us.
Then she kicked my diaper bag aside.
The zipper tore open.
Diapers.
A bottle.
Burp cloth.
And a sealed cream-colored legal envelope slid across the grass.
Dad saw it.
So did I.
Rebecca’s face changed.
Mom bent for it.
Dad got there first.
Still holding Lily securely against his chest, he picked up the envelope with his free hand.
“What is this?”
“James, give me that.”
He opened it.
The first page carried a court filing stamp.
I saw my name.
Margaret Sloan.
Then Lily’s.
Then:
PETITION FOR TEMPORARY GUARDIANSHIP OF MINOR CHILD.
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Dad read farther.
His expression changed.
He looked at Mom.
Then Rebecca.
The petition named Rebecca as the proposed temporary guardian.
It contained affidavits signed by both of them.
Dated the previous day.
Before the backyard.
Before Lily was thrown.
Before there was any “accident” to explain why I supposedly shouldn’t have my child.
Dad’s voice became frighteningly calm.
“Nice touch, Helen—signing Lily’s custody papers before the ‘accident.’”
Mom went white.
“They’re not custody papers.”
“Then what are they?”
“A precaution.”
“For what?”
Mom looked at me.
That was when I understood.
For me.
I moved toward Lily.
Dad handed her to me immediately.
The second she reached my chest, I almost collapsed.
I checked her face.
Hands.
Breathing.
The blanket.
Nothing obvious was wrong.
She screamed against me with the offended fury of a tiny person who had been frightened and wanted the world to know it.
I kissed her forehead.
“I’ve got you.”
Rebecca started crying.
“Margaret, Mom didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.”
One word.
She stopped.
Dad was still holding the petition.
“Why was this filed yesterday?”
Mom’s chin lifted.
“Because someone in this family had to think about Lily.”
I looked at her.
“I’m her mother.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“I have a six-week-old.”
“You cry constantly.”
“My husband died four months ago.”
That silenced everyone.
Aaron had been killed by a drunk driver when I was seven months pregnant.
He never met our daughter.
I had spent the last six weeks sleeping in forty-minute pieces while grieving the man who was supposed to be standing beside me.
Mom had decided grief made me defective.
Rebecca had apparently agreed.
Dad looked at the petition again.
“What did you tell the court?”
Mom said nothing.
I reached for the papers.
Dad hesitated.
Then handed them over.
The first affidavit began with:
Margaret Sloan has demonstrated escalating emotional instability following the death of her husband and birth of her child.
I read the next sentence.
Then another.
My own mother had documented my tears as evidence against me.
Rebecca had described moments when I asked her to hold Lily while I showered as proof that I was “unable to manage routine infant care independently.”
Then I reached the paragraph about that afternoon.
It was already there.
Written before it happened.
Petitioner is concerned Margaret may create or experience an emergency during upcoming family gatherings due to her increasingly erratic behavior.
I looked at Helen.
“You were preparing to use today against me.”
“No.”
“Then why is today mentioned?”
“We knew you would cause a scene.”
I stared at my daughter.
At the fire pit.
At the woman who had thrown her.
And finally understood that my mother had not lost control in the backyard.
She had walked into the day already expecting something she could use.
May you like
She had simply never expected my father to catch the baby.
Or the paperwork.
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