Chapter 1

On the fifth day of my postpartum recovery, I realized the postpartum nurse hadn't shown up.

I called the agency, and they said the package was already refunded.

Right after that, my father-in-law, Richard Evans, sent me a photo from a five-star hotel in Bay City, along with one line: [We're all here enjoying ourselves.]

40,000 dollars. That was the money I'd saved up during my pregnancy.

He didn't hesitate to refund it and spent every dollar as if it were his own, without a shred of guilt.

I looked down at my baby, wailing in my arms, but not a single tear fell from my eyes.

Then, for the next 20 days, I did three things: sold the house, transferred the ownership, and moved out.

The day they came back, I turned off my phone on purpose.

Richard called me 37 times. His last voice message was shaky. "Where's the house? Where's my house?"

I replied with one word: [Sold.]

*****

On the fifth day of my postpartum recovery, the postpartum nurse didn't show up.

The only thing I could hear was the baby crying nonstop, echoing through the house.

I pulled back the covers, and the pain in my belly flared up from the wound.

I grabbed my phone and called the postpartum nurse agency.

"Hello, Mrs. Amelia‌ Evans," the agency answered.

"Why didn't Mary show up today?" I asked.

There was a three-second pause on the other end. "Mrs. Evans, your package was refunded three days ago."

My heart skipped a beat. "Refunded? Who did that?"

"A Mr. Evans, Richard Evans. He said he's your father-in-law."

I hung up, my hands and feet going cold.

My baby's cries echoed through the room, each one piercing my nerves like needles.

I picked him up, my movements stiff and awkward.

His tiny body squirmed in my arms, and his cries grew more desperate.

I had no idea how to breastfeed or change a diaper.

For the past five days, it had been Mary who had taken care of everything for my baby.

I opened up the family group chat. It was dead silent.

The last message was from me, three days ago: [Baby was good today.]

After that, nothing. Not a soul replied.

I opened the step tracker on my phone.

Richard had racked up 12,000 steps.

My mother-in-law, Linda Evans, had 9,000.

My husband, David Evans, took 15,000 steps.

They were all in Bay City.

I went back to my chat list, and a red notification dot jumped out at me.

It was Richard. He didn't share in the group, but sent a photo straight to me. There was blue sky, white clouds, a beach, and palm trees.

Richard, Linda, and David were all rocking sunglasses, holding coconuts, beaming for the camera. The five-star hotel logo was right behind them.

Under the photo, Richard wrote: [Amelia, the house felt way too cramped, so our family decided to get away for a bit. You and the baby should take it easy too.]

Family. It was like my newborn and I didn't count as family to him.

I couldn't stop staring at that photo, as if I'd missed something.

David stood next to his mom, his arm resting on her shoulder, grinning without a care in the world, like he'd forgotten he was a new dad, and that his wife was still at home, recovering from giving birth.

My phone buzzed. It was a bank notification: [Your savings account ending in xxxx was debited 40,000 dollars at 2:32 PM on March 5th.]

The 40,000 dollars was every single bonus I earned, working through my third trimester, belly swelling by the day, chasing one project after another.

I hadn't spent a penny. I saved it all so I could hire a postpartum nurse and give my baby the best.

I tossed my phone aside and stared at my baby in my arms, his face flushed from crying so much.

I didn't cry. Not a single tear.

The metallic scent of blood from my wound mingled with the sweet smell of milk from the baby.

I couldn't feel the pain, but only a chilling clarity that cut right through me.

I scrolled through my contacts and dialed a number. "Hey, Mom."

My mom's voice came through, anxious. "Emmy? What's wrong? Are you not getting enough rest?"

"Mom, can you help me find a reliable postpartum care center? I'm heading over now."

"What happened? Where's David?"

"He's dead," I said, my voice steady. Then I hung up.

I picked up my baby and wrapped him up in a blanket.

I opened the closet, grabbed my ID and the house deed. Threw them all into my bag.

After that, I made my second call.