The hours that followed unraveled into a haze of sterile hallways, clipped questions, and forms passed across desks without anyone meeting our eyes. Time lost its shape. Emery was taken away for a full medical evaluation, and we weren’t allowed to follow.

Only Heather was.

I watched her walk down the corridor beside the nurse, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She clutched her purse with both hands like it was an anchor, her back straight, her face unreadable. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t ask if we’d be okay. She didn’t ask how Emery was doing.

She just went.

“I don’t like that,” James muttered beside me.

“Like what?” I asked, though something in my chest already knew.

“Her face,” he said. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t panic. Didn’t even ask about the baby. That’s not shock—that’s distance.”

He was right. Heather didn’t look like a mother terrified of losing her child. She looked like someone already running through scenarios, already preparing defenses.

Midnight came and went before the phone finally rang.

The hospital confirmed that Emery was stable, but they were keeping her overnight for observation. The bruises weren’t accidental. The doctor’s voice was careful, precise, trained to soften devastation—but the words still cut deep.

Non-accidental trauma.

No medical conditions. No clotting disorders. No explanation that could make this an accident.

The marks were consistent with force. With fingers.

I sat at the kitchen table long after the call ended, staring at the grain in the wood as if answers might appear there. Behind me, James paced, his footsteps sharp and restless.

“They’re going to ask about her boyfriend,” he said finally.

I looked up, confused. “What boyfriend?”

His pacing stopped. “Heather mentioned him once or twice. A guy named Travis. Or Trevor. I don’t know. She said he didn’t like kids.”

My stomach dropped.

Morning brought no relief—only more questions.

CPS called us in early. Emery would remain in protective custody. Heather was being interviewed again. And yes, they had identified the boyfriend.

Travis Henson. Thirty-three.

Two prior assault charges. One from a bar fight. Another involving his stepbrother.

He’d been living in Heather’s apartment for four months.

We hadn’t known.

She’d never told us.

When detectives attempted to locate him, they hit a wall. Travis had vanished. He didn’t show up for work. His apartment was empty. No forwarding address. No witnesses.

Heather claimed she hadn’t seen him in over a week.

Her phone records told a different story.

She’d texted him just two hours before showing up at our door with Emery.

That’s when the air shifted.

This was no longer about an abusive boyfriend alone. The question turned darker, heavier, impossible to ignore.

Had Heather known what was happening?

Had she protected him?

Or had she been part of it?

James sat across from the detective, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. His voice was steady, but only because anger had burned everything else away.

“We don’t care about blame,” he said. “We care about Emery being safe.”

“That’s our priority too,” the officer replied. “At this point, Heather is considered a potential accomplice. She’s not under arrest, but her access to the baby has been suspended.”

I felt James’s hand tighten around mine.

I swallowed. “If Emery can’t go back to her… what happens next?”

The CPS worker leaned forward, her tone gentle but direct.

“You can petition for emergency custody. You discovered the injuries. You acted immediately. That matters. Right now, you’re the safest option she has.”

I looked at James, and in that moment, the fear gave way to something else.

Resolve.

Because whatever came next—courtrooms, paperwork, long nights—we already knew the truth.

Emery wasn’t going back.

Not on our watch.

The thought terrified me—but losing her was worse.

That evening, Heather showed up at our door. She looked thinner. Pale. Nervous.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “It was him. Travis. I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You let him live with you,” James said, voice low. “Around your newborn.”

“I was tired,” she snapped. “Alone. He said he loved me.”

“You didn’t love Emery enough.”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Heather turned red. Then she broke down crying.

But none of us trusted those tears.

The following weeks were filled with court dates, interviews, and more medical evaluations. Emery stayed in the pediatric care ward, gaining weight slowly, feeding well, and showing no signs of lasting injury.

CPS launched a full investigation into Heather’s home life. Photos were pulled from her apartment—unwashed bottles, a cracked crib, empty formula cans, stained baby clothes on the floor.

Heather tried to paint herself as overwhelmed. Postpartum. Isolated. She blamed Travis for everything.

But when pressed, she admitted she suspected he was rough with Emery.

And didn’t stop him.

That was enough.

She lost custody—temporarily, the court said. But with the weight of her decisions, the likelihood of permanent loss loomed.

We were granted emergency kinship custody. Emery came home with us two weeks later. Lila was ecstatic—carefully gentle, helping with bottles, patting her back during burps like a tiny pro.

We converted the guest room into a nursery. Bought new clothes. Safe formula. We took turns with night feedings. Exhausted, but grateful.

Heather called once. James picked up. She asked to visit.

“Not yet,” he said firmly. “You need to finish parenting classes. Prove you’re safe.”

She didn’t argue.

I didn’t hear from her for a month.

Then one morning, I got a letter. Handwritten. No return address.

I don’t expect you to forgive me.
I know I failed Emery. I thought I was doing my best. But I let love blind me.
I’m going to therapy. I’m in the classes. I’m going to try to fix what I broke.

I hope one day you can tell her I loved her. Even if I didn’t deserve to raise her.

No signature. But I knew it was Heather.

I folded the letter and kept it. Not for her. For Emery.

One day, if she asks, I’ll tell her the truth—not all the details, but enough.

That she had a mother who made terrible choices.

And an aunt and uncle who chose her.