Chapter 3
CHAPTER4— The Divided Bloodline
By midnight, the hospital room had settled into a fragile, artificial peace.
The monitor beeped in a steady, monotonous rhythm, tracking the baby's heart rate against the quiet hum of the building's ventilation.
Lenora had finally fallen asleep in the vinyl armchair by the window, her head resting awkwardly against her coat.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, watching the headlights of passing cars cast long, moving shadows across the walls.
My phone vibrated against the bedside table.
It wasn't a text this time.
It was a call.
Della.
Della was my mother’s oldest sister, a woman who believed that family loyalty was an absolute, unyielding law.
A law that only applied when it served the family's public image.
I slid my thumb across the screen and answered, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't wake Lenora.
"Hello, Aunt Della," I whispered.
"Sienna," Della's voice came through the speaker, tight, controlled, and dripping with disappointment.
"Your sister Calista just called me. She’s hysterical."
"She says there are police officers at your mother’s house right now."
I didn't say anything. I just listened to the familiar, patronizing tone that had defined my childhood.
"Do you have any idea what this is doing to Miriam?" Della continued, her voice rising slightly.
"She’s seventy years old, Sienna. Her blood pressure is dangerously high."
"If she has a stroke because of this foolishness, that will be on your head."
The sheer, staggering injustice of her words made my chest tighten.
My mother had shoved me—a pregnant woman—against a table.
I was the one in a hospital bed, hooked to monitors, praying my baby survived the night.
Yet, in their world, I was the one causing the harm.
"She pushed me, Aunt Della," I said, my voice shaking with a quiet, suppressed rage.
"The doctor says I have a partial placental abruption. The baby might have to be delivered tomorrow."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.
Just a second of hesitation before the family armor went back on.
"Miriam was excited," Della said, her voice softening just enough to sound manipulative.
"She wanted to be a part of the shower. You were ignoring her, Sienna. You always freeze her out."
"It was an accident. She went to grab your shoulder, and you slipped."
The lie was so polished, so ready, that I knew they had already rehearsed it.
They had built a fortress around Miriam, and they were preparing to defend it at all costs.
"I didn't slip," I said.
"And I’m not dropping the charges."
"Sienna, be reasonable—"
"I am being reasonable," I interrupted, looking over at Lenora, who was starting to stir in her chair.
"For thirty years, I have let Miriam ruin every single milestone of my life to keep the peace."
"But this baby isn't yours. And he isn't Miriam's."
"I am protecting my son. And if that means Miriam goes to jail, then that’s where she belongs."
I hung up the phone and placed it face down on the table.
Lenora sat up, rubbing her eyes, her gaze instantly falling on me.
"Who was that?" she asked, her voice raspy from sleep.
"Della," I said.
Lenora stood up, stretching her back, a small, grim smile appearing on her face.
"They're panicking," she said, walking over to the bed.
May you like
"Good."
"They should be."
