My father moved toward Patricia.
“You just heard your own voice in that recording.”
She shook her head.
“Recordings can be altered.”
The principal answered before my father could.
“They can. That is why we are preserving the original files and involving the authorities.”
Patricia's face tightened.
“Authorities? Over a family disagreement?”
The principal pointed toward the laptop.
“This stopped being a family disagreement when an adult began discussing how to remove a pregnant fifteen-year-old from her own child.”
Mrs. Rivas stepped forward.
“You're making accusations based on a recording.”
“No,” the principal said. “The recording is one piece of evidence.”
She glanced at the messages.
“So are these.”
Then she looked at me.
“And so is the warning Valerie received.”
Patricia's eyes flicked toward my phone.
I noticed.
“Did you know about the message?”
She frowned.
“I already told you I don't.”
“Then why did you know it came from a stranger?”
Her face went still.
I hadn't told her that.
My father saw it too.
“Patricia.”
She looked at him.
“Explain.”
“There is nothing to explain.”
The principal held out her hand.
“Valerie, may I see the message again?”
I gave her my phone.
She read it.
Then she looked at me.
“Has anyone else contacted you?”
“No.”
“Has Patricia ever threatened you?”
I hesitated.
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
I glanced at Patricia.
“She talks about consequences.”
My aunt rolled her eyes.
“She is fifteen and pregnant. Of course there are consequences.”
My mother stood.
“Enough.”
Patricia looked genuinely surprised.
My mother had defended her for years.
“Maria—”
“Don't.”
My mother’s voice shook.
“Not this time.”
The room became quiet.
The principal turned toward me.
“Valerie, I need to ask you something that may seem unrelated.”
“What?”
“Has Patricia ever given you food, medicine, drinks, or anything else when your parents weren't present?”
I thought about it.
Tea.
Every night.
Patricia had started preparing it after I told the family about the pregnancy.
She always said the same things.
It would settle my stomach.
It would help me sleep.
It was herbal.
It was harmless.
I remembered the smell now.
Sweet at first.
Then something bitter underneath.
“She makes me tea.”
My mother's face changed.
“What kind?”
“I don't know.”
“How often?”
“Almost every night.”
My father stood.
“Why didn't you tell us?”
“I thought she was helping.”
The principal exchanged a look with the counselor.
“Did you always drink it?”
“Almost.”
“What does almost mean?”
I closed my eyes.
“There were two nights I didn't.”
My mother leaned closer.
“Why?”
“I don't remember.”
Then I did.
One night Patricia had stood in my bedroom doorway holding a cup.
“You need to finish it.”
I had told her I wasn't thirsty.
She had become angry.
Not loudly.
That was what frightened me now.
She had simply stared at me and said, “Don't make this difficult.”
The next morning she apologized.
At the time, I accepted it.
Now I remembered another night.
“I spilled one.”
My father looked at me.
“When?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“On my school uniform.”
“What did Patricia do?”
“She got angry.”
“Did she touch you?”
“No.”
“Did she make another?”
I nodded.
“She made a fresh cup.”
My father went completely still.
The principal immediately stood.
“If that cup or anything connected to it still exists, do not throw it away.”
My mother covered her mouth.
“Dear God.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
She started crying.
I had seen my mother angry.
I had seen her frightened.
I had seen her cry when she first learned I was pregnant.
But I had never seen that particular look on her face.
It was recognition.
Not of something she had just learned.
Of something she was afraid had happened again.
She took my hand.
“I should have protected you.”
“You didn't know.”
“I should have.”
My father put his hand over hers.
The principal picked up the phone.
“We're going to arrange immediate protection.”
I looked toward the door.
“What happens now?”
“You won't be returning home with Patricia.”
My father answered before anyone else.
“You're coming with us.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because she lives there.”
My mother understood immediately.
“You're afraid she could still reach you.”
I nodded.
My father looked at the principal.
“Can she stay somewhere else?”
“We can arrange temporary accommodation.”
“Do it.”
My mother squeezed my fingers.
“You won't be alone.”
I wanted to believe her.
Then I remembered the message.
Your baby wasn't the first.
“There's something else.”
The principal looked at me.
“What?”
“The envelope.”
“What envelope?”
“The one you received.”
She hesitated.
“Someone left it outside my office.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“What did it say?”
She handed it to me.
Three lines were written inside.
PROTECT VALERIE.
DON'T TRUST PATRICIA.
ASK WHAT HAPPENED TO ELENA.
I stared at the final name.
“Elena.”
My mother stopped breathing.
I looked at her.
“Mom, who is Elena?”
She didn't answer.
My father turned toward her.
“Maria.”
My mother's eyes filled.
“I haven't heard that name in years.”
“Who is she?”
My father answered.
“She was your cousin.”
I stared at him.
“I don't have a cousin named Elena.”
“You did.”
“What happened to her?”
My mother lowered her head.
“She died.”
“When?”
“Before you were born.”
“How old was she?”
My mother whispered the answer.
“Sixteen.”
The number hit me harder than I expected.
Sixteen.
One year older than me.
I looked at the paper again.
“Was she pregnant?”
My mother closed her eyes.
That was enough.
“She was,” she said.
The room seemed to shrink.
“What happened to her baby?”
My mother hesitated.
“They told us she lost it.”
“Lost it how?”
“They said it was a miscarriage.”
My father said nothing.
I looked at him.
“Do you believe that?”
He didn't answer.
That silence frightened me.
The principal spoke quietly.
“We need records.”
My mother wiped her cheeks.
“It was decades ago.”
“Records still exist.”
I stared at the name.
Elena.
Something stirred in my memory.
An old photograph at my grandmother's house.
A teenage girl with dark hair.
I had once asked who she was.
My grandmother had snatched the photograph away and told me never to ask again.
At the time, I thought she had simply been angry.
Now I understood that adults did not hide ordinary photographs like that.
My father stood.
“We're going to my mother's house.”
The principal looked at him.
“Don't confront Patricia.”
“I won't.”
“Don't confront anyone.”
“I understand.”
He looked at me.
“But we're going to find out who Elena was.”
That evening, my parents took me to a family friend's apartment.
The police had begun dealing with the situation, and nobody wanted me alone.
I sat on the couch for hours.
My phone kept lighting up.
Some classmates asked if Matthew was really the father.
Others sent cruel messages.
One simply said:
Everyone knows now.
I turned the phone facedown.
I placed my hand over my stomach.
For a long time there was nothing.
Then, so faintly I almost doubted it, I felt movement.
My eyes filled.
“I'll protect you,” I whispered.
Later that night my father returned.
He looked exhausted.
“We found something.”
He took an old photograph from his jacket.
A teenage girl stood outside a school.
Dark hair.
Blue uniform.
The same school I attended.
“This is Elena,” my father said.
I touched the photograph.
“She looks like me.”
“She did.”
I turned it over.
There was handwriting on the back.
One sentence.
I won't let them take my baby.
My hands began to shake.
“She knew.”
My father nodded.
“She believed someone was going to take her child.”
I looked more closely at the photograph.
The edge had been torn.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Someone was standing beside her.”
He turned it over.
I pointed to the missing section.
“The picture was ripped.”
He stared at it.
“We'll find out who was there.”
His phone rang.
My mother answered.
Her expression changed.
“What do you mean she left?”
My father stood.
“Who?”
“Patricia.”
My mother's voice trembled.
“She took the old family documents.”
My father swore under his breath.
“Why?”
My mother looked at me.
“Because she knows we're looking for Elena.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Stranger Who Claimed to Know My Mother Sent One Final Message, and Before Sunrise I Had to Choose Whom to Trust
The Morning My Family Turned Against Me Was the Morning I Realized Someone Had Already Decided What Would Happen to My Baby
Part 3 of 20
