The TRO was served that afternoon at my parents’ home.
Thompson’s process server—an older man with a calm face and a thick coat—called afterward.
“They didn’t take it well,” he said dryly.
I pictured my mother’s sobbing performance collapsing into fury. My father’s face red and pulsing. Mary’s indignant shock that consequences could reach her.
Good.
Let them feel the first ounce of what they’d put into me.
They didn’t stop.
They just changed tactics.
Two days later, a caseworker from Child Protective Services called Grandpa Victor’s estate.
My stomach dropped when the staff member told me.
I could feel the old fear clawing up again. The primal terror of someone official saying, We need to check on the baby.
Kendra didn’t blink when I told her.
“Expected,” she said. “It’s the next move. They’ll claim you’re unstable, that Grandpa Victor is ‘controlling’ you, that Ethan is at risk.”
My voice shook. “What if—”
“What if nothing,” Kendra cut in. “You cooperate. Calmly. You show them the nursery. You show them formula. You show them his pediatrician records. And you show them the threats.”
Thompson added, “And we inform CPS that the report came immediately after an emergency protective order. That’s retaliatory reporting.”
Grandpa Victor’s jaw tightened. “Let them come.”
They did.
A CPS worker arrived the next afternoon—Ms. Janine Holloway, mid-thirties, practical shoes, tired eyes. She didn’t look like a villain. She looked like someone who’d seen too many real horrors and didn’t want to miss one.
I took a breath and reminded myself: This isn’t personal. This is procedure.
I showed her Ethan’s room. The crib. The clean diapers. The formula supply Grandpa Victor had ordered in bulk like a man preparing for siege. His pediatrician paperwork. His vaccination schedule. The baby monitor.
Janine took notes, asked gentle questions.
“How’s your support system?”
“My husband is deployed,” I said. “My grandfather is helping. I have legal representation.”
“Why are you here, and not at your parents’ home?” she asked, careful.
I handed her a copy of the TRO and my mother’s threat in writing.
Janine read it.
Her face changed—not dramatically, but enough.
“I see,” she said quietly.
Then she looked at me with something that wasn’t pity.
It was recognition.
“They reported you the same week you filed a police report for financial fraud?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Janine nodded slowly. “That happens.”
My throat tightened. “So what—what does this mean?”
“It means,” she said, closing her notebook, “that I see a safe baby and a mother who is trying to protect him. I see paperwork that suggests harassment. I’m documenting this as an unfounded allegation with indicators of retaliatory reporting.”
I exhaled so hard it almost became a sob.
Janine stood and offered her hand. “Take care of yourself, Olivia.”
When she left, I stood in the doorway for a long moment, legs shaking.
Grandpa Victor approached behind me.
“They tried,” he said.
“And failed,” I whispered.
He nodded once. “Good.”
Caldwell’s investigation moved like a slow, merciless tide.
Every day, he came to Grandpa Victor’s study with another set of facts.
The missing trust documents? Intercepted through a mail-forwarding change filed under my mother’s signature.
The bank withdrawals? Made via ATM near my parents’ house, often late at night. Several transactions tied directly to Mary’s boutique—the one she claimed was “sponsored” and “self-made.”
Luxury purchases—handbags, jewelry, a cruise deposit—spread out like breadcrumbs.
And then the worst part:
A forged power-of-attorney form submitted to one of my financial institutions.
It had my name.
It had my “signature.”
It had my parents’ address.
Caldwell slid it across the desk like he was handing over a weapon.
“That,” he said, voice flat, “is not your handwriting.”
Thompson’s eyes went cold. “That elevates this.”
Grandpa Victor didn’t speak. He just stared at the paper like he was memorizing every line.
I felt my skin crawl.
They hadn’t just taken advantage of me.
They’d manufactured permission.
They’d rewritten reality on paper and dared the world to believe it.
Thompson called the detective assigned to our case—Detective Mariah Benton, financial crimes unit. A woman with sharp cheekbones and a voice that didn’t waste time.
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