Page 36 of The Other Mother

Maria reaches for the soft muslin swaddle on the table. “I can wrap her,” she says. “I know how she likes it.”

Something in me flares. “How would you know that?”

Maria does not answer. She opens her tote and sets a small knit cap on the table. Pale pink. Hospital issue. There is a faded sticker inside the brim where someone tried to write a name and then scratched it out. She lays the cap beside the scale like a piece of evidence.

“I kept this,” she says. “I kept everything.”

The room shifts. Linda drags a chair closer and sits. “ Claire,” she says, and my name sounds careful in her mouth. “What we do here is reunite. Where possible. Where safe. We do not force. We do not take. But we do name what is true.”

Maria lifts her chin. Her eyes never leave Eva. “Start by naming it,” she says.

“Naming what?” I ask.

Maria answers for Linda. “Who she is.” She means the baby. She means mine, and not mine. But I don’t understand.

Tasha clears her throat. “We can work out a plan. Overnights. Visits. A transition if that is what is best. No one is the enemy here.”

The word transition hits me and knocks a bit of air out of me. I gather Eva back against my chest. She settles, heavy and warm, in my arms. The soft sounds from the kitchen continue. A timer goes off somewhere and no one moves to silence it.

Linda folds her hands. “We need to talk about custody and about safety. If you stay here, we ask for your keys tonight. Phones go in the box. It is how we keep everyone protected.”

I slide my car key deeper into my pocket. “From whom?”

“From the people outside who make choices for mothers,” Linda says. “From men who show up with doctors who are not doctors. ”

Maria’s mouth tightens. “From people who take children that are not theirs.”

I look at her then, really look. Her face is young and hard and tired. There is nothing of a savior in it. Only hunger. Only loss.

“What do you want?” I ask.

She does not blink. “Her.”

I stare at her, and for a second there, Maria doesn’t meet my eyes.

"You lied to me," I say quietly. "You want Eva."

"Eva is my baby," Maria finally looks at me, and her young face is hard with determination. "She was my best friend’s child who is now dead. You stole my Goddaughter. I'm just correcting the balance."

The safe house suddenly doesn't feel safe anymore. It feels like another kind of trap, dressed up in comfortable furniture and the smell of home cooking.

"This isn't about justice," I say, standing up with Eva. "This is about revenge."

"Sometimes they're the same thing," Linda says calmly. "You can stay here with us, Claire. Continue to see Eva. She needs her real family, but she also needs the woman who's loved her for two months. We can share her."

Share her? I cling tighter to her.

I look around the room at these women who've built their own version of justice from the ashes of their grief. They're not evil. They're trauma survivors trying to heal in the only way they know how. But their solution isn't what Eva needs.

Eva starts to fuss, making the soft complaining sounds that mean she's getting hungry.

Without thinking, I start humming the lullaby I've sung to her every night for two months.

The melody my own mother sang to me when I was small, before cancer took her voice away.

Eva immediately settles, her body relaxing against mine.

In that moment, I understand something that transcends genetics and legal documents. Eva knows me. Not because we share DNA, but because I'm the one who's been there for every feeding, every diaper change, every midnight cry. I'm the voice that soothes her fears and the arms that hold her safe.

"She knows me," I say quietly. "She needs me. Biology didn't make me her mother. Love did. And I won't let anyone take that away from her again."

The room grows tense, and I realize I've crossed a line. These women see me as just another privileged person who got what she wanted at their expense. They're not entirely wrong, but they're not entirely right either.

"I understand why you hate me," I continue. "But Eva didn't choose this. She didn't ask to be stolen from one mother and given to another. All she knows is that I'm her mama, and taking her away from me now would traumatize her just as much as what was done to all of you. "

Linda stands up, and I can see her calculating something behind her eyes. "Maybe you should sleep on it. It's late, and we're all emotional. Things might look different in the morning."

She shows me to a small bedroom with a crib already set up. Eva and I settle in, but I don't undress. Something about this place, these women, the way they keep watching Eva like she's a prize they're waiting to claim, sets my teeth on edge.

I wait until the house grows quiet, until I hear the last footsteps in the hallway and the last door closing. Then I gather Eva and our few belongings and creep toward the front door.

But as I step onto the porch, headlights blaze across the clearing. Adam's white F-150 pulls into the driveway, followed by two police cars and a Child Protective Services van.

"I told you, Claire," Adam calls out as he steps from his truck. "I'll always find you. And I brought backup."

I turn to run back into the house, but Linda is standing in the doorway behind me.