Chapter 4 - THE WAR FOR CONTROL
By the next afternoon, Toby’s fever had finally broken. The antibiotics were working, and the monitors showed his liver enzymes were stabilizing as the sedatives slowly cleared his small system.
He was sitting up in his crib, reaching for a plastic rattle with a faint, sweet smile on his face. Seeing him alert, coherent, and bright-eyed for the first time in weeks brought tears to my eyes. This was my baby—not the dull, heavy-eyed child Eleanor had been parading around to show everyone how "peaceful" he was under her care.
The door to the room opened, and my sister, Maya, rushed in, dropping her overnight bag on the floor and throwing her arms around me.
“Oh my god, Clara!” Maya sobbed, hugging me tightly. “I came as soon as I got your voicemail. I couldn't believe it... Eleanor? Mark? Are they insane?!”
“They thought they were untouchable,” I said, wrapping my arm around my sister. “Thank God for Lily.”
“She’s a hero,” Maya said, walking over to kiss Lily’s forehead as my daughter colored in a picture book at the bedside table. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m done crying,” I told her honestly. “I spent six months believing I was broken. I spent six months letting them gaslight me into thinking I wasn't fit to be a mother. Now I’m going to make sure neither of them ever touches my kids again.”
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a call from an unknown number. I answered it, putting it on speaker so Maya could hear.
“Clara?” Mark’s frantic, desperate voice came through the speaker. He sounded like he was calling from a hallway, background noise echoing behind him. “Clara, please don't hang up! I spent six hours at the police station! They let me go on bail, but Mom is still locked up!”
“Do not call me, Mark,” I said, my voice icy. “You are violating a protection order.”
“Listen to me!” he yelled, panic pitching his voice higher. “It was a mistake! Mom didn't mean to hurt Toby! She just thought he had colic! She didn't want you stressing out! You know how worked up you get!”
“Worked up?” I repeated, standing up from my chair. “Mark, your mother fed your eight-month-old son prescription sleep medication and adult Benadryl! He was in the ICU! His fever hit 104 degrees because his infection went untreated for days!”
“She was just trying to help us sleep!” Mark shouted back. “You were making everything so dramatic! If you hadn't been acting so crazy all the time, she wouldn't have felt like she needed to step in!”
Maya took a step toward the phone, her face contorted in rage, but I held up my hand to stop her.
“Thank you, Mark,” I said calmly.
“For what?” he asked, stunned.
May you like
“For calling from a line I know is recorded by the hospital’s system, and for blaming me for your mother poisoning our son. My lawyer will be using this audio in our divorce and custody proceedings. Good luck paying Eleanor’s bail.”
I hung up the phone and immediately blocked the number.
