Chapter 4
The west nursery was ready.
Not dusty.
Not abandoned.
Ready.
Fresh blankets.
New bassinet.
Bottles.
Clothes in Noah's size.
A rocking chair.
Night-light.
Everything arranged before Clara even gave birth.
I stood in the doorway.
Mother behind me.
Victor beside two guards.
Marissa near Clara's room.
“How long?”
Evelyn sighed.
“Don't make this melodramatic.”
“How long has this room been prepared?”
“Three weeks.”
Before Noah was born.
Before the emergency delivery.
Before Clara came home.
I looked at her.
“Why?”
Mother walked past me.
She ran her fingers over the bassinet.
“For stability.”
“For who?”
“Noah.”
“His nursery is downstairs.”
“With Clara.”
She said my wife's name like a diagnosis.
I stared.
Evelyn continued.
“She is too emotional.”
“She gave birth six days ago.”
“She cries.”
“She's in pain.”
“She panics when the baby cries.”
“That is called being a mother.”
“No.”
Mother looked at me.
“That is weakness spreading.”
I almost laughed.
“You built a second nursery because my wife cried.”
“I built a second nursery because somebody in this house has to think beyond tonight.”
Victor smiled.
“Finally.”
I looked at him.
He nodded toward the room.
“Your son is a Carter.”
“And?”
“He shouldn't grow up wrapped around Clara's finger.”
My jaw tightened.
“He is six days old.”
“Exactly.”
Victor crossed his arms.
“Start early.”
Same words Mother used about Lily.
No.
About Clara.
Control before resistance.
That was their philosophy.
I looked through the room.
Then noticed something.
A leather travel bag beside the closet.
Not Noah's.
Clara's.
I opened it.
Her clothes.
Shoes.
Toiletries.
Wedding photo missing from the frame.
I turned.
“What is this?”
Mother didn't answer.
Victor did.
“She needed rest.”
“Where?”
“North house.”
My stomach tightened.
A Carter property almost three hours away.
Remote.
Guarded.
Mostly unused.
“You packed my wife a bag.”
Mother smiled.
“You were busy.”
“That wasn't the question.”
“She wasn't coping.”
“So you were sending her away.”
“Temporarily.”
“Without Noah.”
Silence.
There.
The real plan.
I walked toward Mother.
She held her ground.
“You planned to separate my wife from our newborn.”
“I planned to save your son from chaos.”
“Clara is not chaos.”
“She collapsed three times.”
“Because you starved her.”
Mother's face hardened.
“I didn't starve anyone.”
“She hadn't eaten.”
“She was offered food.”
“When?”
“When she finished what she was told.”
The cruelty was almost impressive in its logic.
She truly believed a meal stopped being food if obedience was attached.
Victor laughed.
“You're making this bigger than it is.”
I looked at him.
“You threatened Clara with losing her child.”
“She needed to hear consequences.”
“You threw away her food.”
“She was becoming spoiled.”
I stepped closer.
“By toast?”
His smile disappeared.
I opened the travel bag again.
Under Clara's clothes sat an envelope.
Not paper I cared about.
A photograph.
Me.
Clara.
Noah.
Taken through the nursery window two days after we came home.
Someone inside the house had photographed us.
On the back, three words:
HE WILL CHOOSE.
I stared.
Mother saw it.
Her face changed.
Victor's did too.
“What does that mean?”
Neither answered.
I held it up.
“Who will I choose?”
Mother reached for it.
I pulled it away.
Victor looked toward the door.
Another reaction.
I turned to Marissa.
“Have you seen this?”
She shook her head.
Then Clara's voice came weakly from the hall.
“I have.”
Everyone turned.
She stood supported by a nurse.
Too pale.
Too tired.
But awake.
I crossed to her.
“You shouldn't be standing.”
She looked at the photograph.
“Evelyn showed me that yesterday.”
I stared at Mother.
Clara continued.
“She said when you came home…”
Her voice trembled.
“…you would choose between being my husband and being a Carter.”
Victor closed his eyes.
Mother did not.
She looked at Clara with contempt.
May you like
Then said:
“And I still think I was right.”
