My mother went silent.
Then her phone rang.
It was me.
“I know about the messages,” I said.
There was a long pause.
“What messages?”
“The ones you sent Caleb.”
My mother immediately changed her tone.
“You don’t understand what happened.”
“I understand enough.”
“She disrespected me.”
“She was eight months pregnant.”
“She embarrassed this family.”
“You put fish bones in front of her.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“You took her phone.”
“I never touched her.”
“Caleb did.”
Silence.
Then I heard Caleb in the background.
“Don’t say anything.”
My mother must not have realized her phone was still connected.
I heard everything.
She whispered, “We need to stick to the same story.”
I ended the call.
That sentence became the last thing I needed.
I met with an attorney that afternoon.
I gave him the photographs.
The messages.
The hospital records.
The locksmith invoice.
And the names of every
