Chapter 2: The Woman Who Wanted Me Gone
My father didn't shout.
That was what frightened me most.
He simply handed the phone back to Marcus and said, “Please give us ten minutes.””
Then he turned to the guests.
“I'm sorry, everyone. We're postponing the photographs. Help yourselves to the refreshments. Patricia, would you mind keeping the boys with you?””
My aunt immediately moved toward Jordan and Caleb.
Monique caught Adrian's sleeve.
“Don't you dare make a scene in front of the children.””
He gently removed her hand.
“You should have thought about that before involving lawyers.””
Her expression hardened.
I had seen that expression before, usually when she thought nobody else was paying attention.
“Fine,” she said.
“Let's go inside.””
She walked toward the house without waiting for him.
My father looked at me.
“Come with me, sweetheart.””
I followed him through the glass doors into his study, the room that smelled of leather, cedar, and the coffee he drank every morning before work.
Monique was already standing beside his desk.
She had taken off her orange jacket and folded it over a chair. Her hair remained perfect. Even now, with her plans falling apart, she seemed more concerned about maintaining appearances than about the bruises on my arm.
“Before this becomes ridiculous,” she began, “I want everyone to remember that I have done nothing except try to protect this family.””
My father closed the door.
“From what?””
“From a situation that has been getting worse for months.””
“What situation?””
She looked at me.
“Layla's behavior.””
My stomach tightened.
Dad pulled out his desk chair but didn't sit.
“Be specific.””
Monique folded her arms.
“She refuses to follow household rules. She undermines me whenever you're not around. She tells the boys that I'm not their real mother. She deliberately creates conflict, and when I try to correct her, she cries until you come running.””
I stared at her.
“I never said you're not their real mother.””
“Don't interrupt me.””
“Monique,” Dad warned.
She took a sharp breath.
“See? This is exactly what I mean.””
My father looked at me.
“Layla, have you ever told Jordan or Caleb that Monique isn't their real mother?””
“No.””
“Have you ever deliberately disobeyed a household rule to upset her?””
I thought of the times she had ordered me to clean up messes I hadn't made, or told me I couldn't call Dad at work because he was too busy.
“No,” I whispered.
Monique laughed without humor.
“Of course she'll deny it.””
Dad's jaw tightened.
“Do you have any evidence?””
“I have a record of incidents.””
“Then show me.””
She hesitated.
That hesitation lasted only a second, but I noticed it.
So did my father.
He walked to the desk and pressed the intercom button.
“Evelyn, please ask Marcus to come inside.””
Our housekeeper had worked for us since before my mother died. She knew where every photograph belonged and how Dad took his coffee. She also knew when Monique was being cruel.
But Evelyn rarely spoke about it.
A minute later, she entered the study.
“Mr. Reed?””
“Evelyn, have you witnessed any incidents involving Layla that concerned you?””
Monique immediately straightened.
“Evelyn, I wouldn't recommend involving the staff in a private family disagreement.””
My father ignored her.
“Please answer the question.””
Evelyn looked at me.
Her eyes softened.
“Yes, sir.””
Monique's face went pale.
“Excuse me?””
Evelyn clasped her hands in front of her apron.
“I've seen Layla left out of family dinners. I've seen her ask permission to eat food in her own kitchen. And twice, I've heard Mrs. Reed tell her that she would be better off living somewhere else.””
The room became very still.
My father turned slowly toward Monique.
“You told my daughter she'd be better off living somewhere else?””
Monique lifted her chin.
“I may have said something in frustration. You have no idea how difficult it is to manage a household when a child refuses to accept boundaries.””
Evelyn continued, her voice trembling slightly.
“There was also the incident with the school trip.””
I looked up.
The school trip.
Three months earlier, my class had gone to a science museum two hours away. Every student had needed a signed permission slip and a small payment for lunch.
I had left my form on the kitchen counter.
The next morning, it was gone.
Monique told me Dad had decided the trip was too expensive.
I had spent the day in the school library while my classmates visited the museum.
Dad had never mentioned the trip.
“What incident?”” he asked.
Evelyn glanced at Monique.
“She took the permission slip from the counter. I found it in the recycling bin after Mrs. Reed left for her hair appointment.””
My father stared at her.
Monique's voice rose.
“That is an outrageous accusation!””
“I saw the form,” Evelyn replied.
“It had Layla's name on it.””
“You are a housekeeper. You have no business making judgments about my parenting.””
“And you have no business preventing my daughter from attending a school trip without telling me,” Adrian said.
He sounded so calm that I could barely breathe.
Monique turned on him.
“You work twelve hours a day! Someone has to make decisions while you're away.””
“I trust you to make decisions about the household. I never gave you permission to interfere with my daughter's education.””
“You trusted me to raise her!””
“I trusted you to care for her.””
The distinction seemed to strike Monique harder than a shout.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she reached into her handbag and removed a thick folder.
“Fine. You want evidence? Here it is.””
She dropped the folder onto the desk.
Inside were printed emails, handwritten notes, and several pages of typed observations.
I recognized my name on nearly every page.
*Layla refused to cooperate during dinner.*
*Layla became hostile when asked to clean her room.*
*Layla appeared resentful of her brothers.*
*Layla has difficulty accepting female authority.*
My hands went cold.
Some incidents had dates.
Others didn't.
Several described ordinary things I remembered differently.
One note claimed I had screamed at Monique because she asked me to put away my shoes.
I remembered that day. She had thrown my mother's old slippers into a trash bag because she said they made the hallway look untidy.
I had cried.
I had not screamed.
Another page claimed I had threatened to run away.
I had once asked Dad if I could spend a weekend with my grandmother because I missed Mom and wanted to visit her old garden.
Monique had turned that request into a warning sign.
My father read the documents in silence.
Finally, he asked, “Who prepared these?””
“I did.””
“And who reviewed them?””
“My attorney.””
“Why does a twelve-year-old child's behavior require a legal file?””
Monique looked at the folder.
“Because I have concerns about the future.””
“What future?””
She swallowed.
“The boys are getting older. They need stability. They need a peaceful home.””
“And Layla is somehow preventing that?””
“She is still grieving. She resents me. I have tried everything, Adrian.””
I felt tears burn behind my eyes.
I wanted to ask her what I had done to deserve this.
Instead, I watched my father turn another page.
He stopped at a photograph.
It showed me sitting alone at the dining table, my head bowed over a plate of food.
The date printed beneath it was a Sunday in June.
I remembered that evening.
Jordan had accidentally spilled juice over a tablecloth. Monique had sent him upstairs to change, then told me to clean the entire dining room because I was old enough to be responsible.
I had been eating when she ordered me to stand.
The photograph had captured me crying over my cold dinner.
Underneath it, someone had written:
*Child displays emotional instability when corrected.*
My father slowly lowered the page.
“Who took this photograph?””
Monique looked away.
“I did.””
“You photographed her crying at dinner?””
“I was documenting her behavior.””
He closed the folder.
“Enough.””
She stepped toward him.
“Adrian, you cannot seriously believe that a few isolated incidents make me a bad stepmother.””
“I believe you have been collecting evidence against my daughter without telling me.””
“I was protecting myself.””
“From a twelve-year-old?””
“From what could happen if you continue allowing her to control this household!””
There it was.
The truth beneath all the careful language.
Not concern.
Not discipline.
Control.
My father looked at me, and I could see something breaking inside him.
“Layla, I need you to tell me something honestly.””
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand.
“Okay.””
“Have you ever felt unsafe in this house?””
I opened my mouth.
Monique stared at me.
Her expression was almost pleading now, but not because she cared about my answer.
She was warning me.
I thought of the missing invitations, the cold dinners, the nights I cried into my pillow because I missed my mother. I thought of the way Monique could make a room feel smaller simply by entering it.
Then I remembered something my mother used to say.
You don't have to make yourself smaller to make someone else comfortable.
“Yes,” I whispered.
My father's face changed.
“Tell me when.””
I took a breath.
“Sometimes when you're at work. Sometimes when she says I don't belong here.””
Monique's eyes widened.
“I never said that!””
“You told me Dad would be happier if I lived with Grandma.””
The words came out shakily.
“But you said not to tell him because he had enough problems.””
My father looked as if the floor had vanished beneath him.
“Layla, when did she say that?””
“Last month.””
Monique shook her head furiously.
“She is twisting my words!””
“Then explain them,” he said.
She couldn't.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Dad walked around the desk and knelt in front of me.
“I'm sorry.””
I stared at him.
He had apologized when he accidentally missed a school concert. He had apologized when work made him late for dinner.
He had never apologized like this.
“I should have listened sooner,” he said.
“You shouldn't have had to handle this alone.””
I wanted to believe him.
But I had spent two years learning that promises could disappear as soon as the front door closed.
“Are you going to make her leave?”” I asked.
Monique's head snapped toward me.
My father didn't answer immediately.
“I don't know what happens next,” he admitted.
“But I know this. Nobody is going to force you out of your home.””
Monique stepped backward as though he had struck her.
“You would destroy our marriage over this?””
“No,” he said.
“You brought our marriage into this when you started building a legal case against my child.””
She grabbed her handbag.
“Fine. Call your lawyer. Ask him what happens when a child refuses to accept a stepparent. Ask him what the court thinks of a father who leaves his daughter with a woman she openly despises.””
My father stood.
“I will call my lawyer.””
For the first time, Monique looked genuinely shaken.
Then she did something I would remember for years.
She pointed at me and said, “You have no idea what your mother left behind.””
My breath caught.
Dad's face went white.
“What did you just say?””
Monique froze.
I had spent two years hearing her criticize my mother's belongings, her old photographs, even the way she had arranged the kitchen.
But she had never spoken as if she knew something about Mom that the rest of us didn't.
My father stepped toward her.
“Monique, what did your mother leave behind?””
She tightened her grip on her handbag.
“Nothing.””
“You just said—”
“I was angry.””
She hurried out of the study, leaving the folder on the desk.
Dad started to follow her, then stopped when he saw me trembling.
He took my hand.
“We'll figure this out,” he promised.
I nodded.
But my eyes remained on the open folder.
On the photographs.
On the dates.
And on the last page, which had been folded beneath the others.
A single sentence was typed across the top.
*Recommended placement: temporary transfer of primary care to paternal grandmother pending review of the surviving parent's suitability.*
I read it twice.
Then I looked at my father.
“Dad,” I whispered, “what does temporary transfer mean?””
He took the page from my hand.
And when he saw the name written beneath the recommendation, his face lost every trace of color.
May you like
It wasn't my grandmother's name.
It was his.
