The next morning, I drove to her house.
I left the envelope on her kitchen counter with a short note: For Beverly.
Then I returned home to wait.
Twenty minutes after I got home, my phone rang. I picked it up.
Beverly was sobbing. For once, it wasn’t the fake, dramatic sob she used for an audience. That was raw and real.
“No… nooo,” she wailed. “That can’t be real.”
“Oh, it’s real.”
“Please. Forgive me, Sylvia! I will do anything for you.”
“Anything? I’m glad to hear you say that, Beverly. Do you have the documents in front of you?”
“Yes.” I heard papers rustling on her end.
I hadn’t sent Beverly an unpleasant letter or a threat. Instead, I’d drawn a firm boundary and provided motivation for her to stick to it: a copy of my first ultrasound. Brandon and I were pregnant.
“We’ll start with the one labeled ‘Conditions for Contact.’ If you want to contact our child, you need to sign that.”
“My grandbaby…” Her voice broke. “You can’t keep my grandbaby from me.”
“I can. And I will. If I have to.”
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