Chapter 3 - The Promise in the Peach Dress
Gabriel wanted to delete the message.
I stopped him.
“Screenshot it first.”
He looked at me. “Why?”
“Because somebody wants us confused, and I’m done helping people erase evidence.”
We saved the number, forwarded the screenshot to Nadia, and then stood beside the incubators until the nurse gently told us the babies needed less stimulation.
On the way out, Gabriel said, “There was no embryo transfer.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“They were conceived naturally.”
“Then why would the message say that?”
“To make me doubt her.”
He said it immediately.
No hesitation.
That mattered.
I studied him.
“You believe Gemma.”
“Always.”
The answer came so fast it hurt.
Because I realized I had not always done the same.
Three months earlier, at Gemma’s baby shower, she had tried to tell me something.
I remembered the peach dress first.
It was soft and embroidered with tiny flowers, the same color as the invitation cards Gabriel had designed himself. Gemma had looked radiant, one hand on her belly and the other holding a glass of sparkling cider.
Everyone kept touching her.
People asked how she felt, what the doctor said, whether twins ran in Gabriel’s family.
Few people asked what she wanted.
Gemma tolerated it until our mother announced she had arranged “postpartum help.”
“Mom,” Gemma said, “I already hired someone for three afternoons a week.”
Mom smiled at the room as though Gemma had made a cute joke.
“You’ll need more than that.”
“I don’t want live-in help.”
“You don’t know what you’ll need.”
“I know what I don’t want.”
The room went quiet.
I had stepped in.
“Mom, let her finish.”
Gemma looked at me with relief.
After dessert, she pulled me into the pantry and closed the door.
“I need you to keep something.”
She handed me a small brass key on a blue ribbon.
“What is it?”
“A safe-deposit box.”
I laughed. “Since when do you have a safe-deposit box?”
“Since Gabriel said keeping important papers in the junk drawer was not a legal strategy.”
“That sounds like Gabriel.”
She did not laugh.
“Becca, if Mom ever says I am confused, believe me first.”
I remember feeling uncomfortable.
“Gem, she worries.”
“So do you.”
I blinked.
“What does that mean?”
“You worry and ask me. Mom worries and tells me.”
The difference should have struck me then.
It did not.
I put the key in my purse.
Then life moved.
Work. Appointments. The shower. The pregnancy getting harder.
I forgot.
Now, in the hospital hallway, I dug through my purse with shaking hands.
The key was still there.
Gabriel stared at it.
“She gave you that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The shower.”
He closed his eyes.
“She told me she made a backup plan. She wouldn’t tell me where.”
“Why not?”
“Because she said if I got angry at your parents, I would ‘do the husband face’ and make everything worse.”
Despite the fear, I smiled.
“I know the husband face.”
“So do I.”
We went to the bank the next morning while Gemma remained sedated in intensive care.
The babies were stable.
My mother had left the hospital after Warren Pike arrived and was turned away from Gemma’s records.
Dad stayed.
He looked like a man who had finally discovered that silence could become evidence too.
The bank manager led us to a private room.
Inside Gemma’s box were three folders, a flash drive, and a handwritten note.
BECCA — IF YOU ARE READING THIS, I WAS RIGHT TO BE CAREFUL. PLEASE DON’T BE MAD. I WANTED ONE PERSON WHO WOULD LISTEN BEFORE DECIDING.
My throat closed.
Gabriel looked away to give me privacy.
I opened the first folder.
It contained copies of emails between my mother and Warren.
Some were about guardianship.
Others were worse.
Mom had contacted a private consultant who specialized in “family risk management.” The consultant had advised her to document any mistake Gemma made during pregnancy.
Missed appointments.
Medication confusion.
Emotional outbursts.
Anything that could support a future custody argument.
“She was building a file,” I whispered.
Gabriel’s hands curled into fists.
The second folder contained letters from Gemma.
Drafts she never sent.
Mom, I know you think I need you to decide for me. I need you to hear that this hurts me.
Dad, when you stay quiet, Mom thinks you agree.
Becca, sometimes you protect me so fast you forget to ask if I want protecting.
I stopped reading.
Gabriel sat beside me.
“She loved you.”
“I know.”
“She still does.”
“That’s not the same as me doing right by her.”
“No.”
He did not comfort me with a lie.
I was grateful.
The third folder held financial documents.
Not Gemma’s money.
The Hart Family Ability Foundation.
Our mother had started the nonprofit when Gemma was six. Its public mission was to support adults with intellectual disabilities in employment, housing, and family life.
The irony almost made me sick.
Gemma’s face appeared on every annual report.
Her childhood photographs had raised millions.
And now she had discovered that the foundation was quietly paying Warren’s firm and the “risk consultant” to prepare legal action against her.
The charity built around her independence was financing an effort to take it away.
Gabriel whispered, “Oh my God.”
The flash drive contained audio recordings.
Gemma’s voice came through the small laptop speaker.
“Mom, I am recording this because last time you said I remembered wrong.”
Then my mother’s voice.
“You are making a mistake marrying him.”
“I love him.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“It is my marriage.”
“You do not understand what marriage requires.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Gemma, stop being difficult.”
“I am not difficult because I disagree.”
I pressed pause.
My eyes were burning.
Gabriel whispered, “That was the night before we got engaged.”
“You heard this?”
“No.”
“She protected you.”
“She protected herself.”
He corrected me gently.
I nodded.
He was right.
Always agency.
Always Gemma.
The final recording was from six weeks ago.
Mom’s voice sounded tight.
“If you insist on having these babies without the family agreement, you may force us to take steps you won’t like.”
Gemma answered, “You mean take my babies.”
“I mean protect them.”
“No. Say the words.”
Silence.
Then Gemma said, “If I wake up in a hospital and you try to take them, Becca will stop you.”
I covered my mouth.
Gabriel shut his eyes.
The audio continued.
My mother laughed softly.
“Rebecca won’t choose you over this family.”
Gemma’s answer was immediate.
“She will when she knows the truth.”
The recording ended.
For a moment, neither Gabriel nor I spoke.
Then my phone rang.
Dad.
I answered.
His voice sounded wrong.
“Rebecca, come back to the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“Gemma woke up.”
Relief hit so hard I had to grip the table.
“She’s awake?”
“For a minute.”
“What did she say?”
Dad was silent.
“Dad?”
“She asked for the babies.”
I smiled through tears.
“Okay.”
“And then she asked whether your mother had taken them.”
The smile disappeared.
Dad whispered, “Rebecca, she was terrified.”
I looked at the folders spread across the table.
“I know.”
Then he added, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“A psychologist is here with Warren.”
“Why?”
“They say Gemma was evaluated last month.”
My stomach dropped.
“Evaluated for what?”
Dad’s voice broke.
“Competency.”
May you like
The word hit like ice.
“And the report says she failed.”
