Chapter 10
Margaret requested to see the baby.
Emma said no.
I agreed.
My mother called that cruelty.
That word almost made me laugh.
“You stained his skin black and removed his identification band.”
“I made a mistake.”
“No.”
I sat across from her in the old estate library.
“You made a plan.”
She looked away.
“A mistake happens before preparation. You prepared photographs, a nursery, captain letters, a second bracelet.”
Her face hardened.
“I never meant him harm.”
“That is not the standard.”
She looked at me.
“What standard?”
“Whether you treated him like a person.”
Silence.
“You treated him like a tool.”
She flinched.
Good.
Then she said the thing I expected eventually.
“I raised you.”
“Yes.”
“I sacrificed everything after your father died.”
“Yes.”
“I protected this organization until you were ready.”
“Yes.”
“And this is my reward?”
There it was.
Parenthood as debt.
Love converted into ownership.
I leaned back.
“You want payment for raising your son?”
Her face changed.
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“It is.”
I spoke quietly.
“You believe everything you gave me bought access to every decision I make afterward.”
Margaret started crying.
Real tears.
I felt them.
That did not change the answer.
“You are my mother.”
She looked up.
“I love you.”
More tears.
“And you will not see Emma or the baby until Emma wants you there.”
Her expression hardened again.
“She controls you.”
“No.”
I almost smiled.
“She controls access to herself and her child.”
“Our child,” Margaret snapped.
I stared at her.
There.
Still.
The word escaped too naturally.
I stood.
“He is not your child.”
Margaret’s face collapsed.
I left before she could turn pain back into argument.
Outside, Antonio was waiting.
He asked whether I was all right.
“No.”
He nodded.
Good consigliere.
No useless reassurance.
Then he gave me one final piece.
The black pigment container had come from the old Moretti theatrical storage used for family charity events.
Margaret had taken it three days before the birth.
Three days.
She had been waiting for labor.
May you like
Not reacting to it.
That ended whatever small part of me still wanted to call her behavior panic.
