Chapter 9
The world slowed down.
All I could see was the knife against Lily’s throat. All I could hear was the crackle of the fire and the wind howling outside.
Ethan stepped in front of me, his hands up.
“Mom,” he said, his voice steady, calm, like he was talking to a spooked animal. “Put the knife down. Please. Let Lily go. We can talk about this.”
“Talk?” Margaret laughed, a sharp, crazy sound. “There’s nothing to talk about. You left me. You chose her over me. Your own mother. After everything I did for you. I fed you. I clothed you. I took care of you when your father left. And this is how you repay me?”
Tears streamed down her face. The knife wavered.
“I loved you, Ethan. More than anything. And you threw it all away for this… this thing. Your sister. Your mistake.”
She looked at me, her eyes wild.
“You took everything from me. First my husband. Then my son. Now my granddaughter. I won’t let you take her too. I’d rather kill her myself than let you raise her as a freak.”
The knife pressed harder against Lily’s skin. A tiny red line appeared on her neck.
She stirred, letting out a small whimper.
I saw my opening.
Margaret’s eyes were on Ethan. Her attention was on him. She’d forgotten I was there.
I moved.
Fast.
I lunged forward, grabbing the knife with my left hand. The blade sliced through my palm, blood pouring down my wrist, but I didn’t feel it. I wrenched it out of her hand and threw it across the room. It clattered into the fireplace.
Ethan jumped forward, grabbing Margaret, pinning her arms behind her back. She screamed, thrashing, trying to bite him, trying to kick him.
I caught Lily as she fell from Margaret’s arms.
She was crying now, her face red, the small cut on her neck bleeding a little. I held her tight, rocking her, whispering in her ear. “It’s okay. Mommy’s here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Ethan dragged Margaret over to the old oak chair by the fireplace. He tied her hands behind her back with the rope we kept by the woodpile, then tied her feet to the chair legs.
She screamed the whole time. Cursed us. Threatened us. Promised she’d get out, she’d find us, she’d take Lily again.
I ignored her. I sat on the couch, holding Lily, pressing a clean dish towel to the cut on her neck. It was shallow. It would be okay.
Ethan called 911. He told them where we were, what had happened. They said they were on their way, but the roads were still bad. It would be another hour.
We sat in silence for a long time. The only sounds were Lily’s quiet whimpers, Margaret’s heavy breathing, the fire.
Then Margaret spoke. Her voice was quiet now. Broken.
“I was seventeen when I had Ethan,” she said, staring into the fire. “My parents kicked me out. I had nothing. No money. No home. No one. Then Richard came along. He was older. Rich. He took care of us. I thought I’d finally won. I thought I had the perfect family.”
She paused, swallowing hard.
“Then he met your mother. And suddenly, I wasn’t enough. Nothing I did was ever enough. I cleaned the house. I cooked his meals. I raised his son. And he still wanted her. He loved her more than me. More than Ethan.”
She looked at me.
“When you walked through that door, all those years later, I saw her. I saw her face in yours. And I knew. I knew you’d take him from me too. Just like she did. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t be alone again.”
She started crying. Soft, quiet sobs.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I was just scared. So scared.”
For a second, I felt bad for her. Just a second.
Then I looked at Lily. The cut on her neck. The fear in her eyes.
I remembered lying at the bottom of those stairs, thinking I was going to die.
I remembered running from hospital to hospital, hiding in motels, scared for my life.
No.
She didn’t get to be the victim. Not after everything she’d done.
“You chose this,” I said, my voice cold. “You chose to hurt me. To hurt Lily. To hurt your own son. You could’ve gotten help. You could’ve talked to us. But you chose violence. And now you have to live with the consequences.”
The police arrived an hour later. They dragged Margaret out, still screaming. She’d be going back to jail this time for good—kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, violation of bail, violating the no-contact order. She’d be lucky to get out in twenty years. If ever.
The paramedics checked Lily and me over. Lily’s cut needed one stitch. My palm needed five. We were both okay.
On the drive home, Lily fell asleep in her car seat. The sun was coming up, painting the snow pink and orange.
Ethan reached over and squeezed my good hand.
“We did it,” he said. “She’s never coming back.”
May you like
I looked at Lily.
I knew he was right.
