“No,” I said, pulling it back. “If you respond, she wins. If I respond in anger, it validates her narrative. She wants me to scream. She wants me to write a ten-paragraph rant so she can screenshot it and say, *‘Look at how crazy she is, look at how she treats her poor mother.’*”
“Nora, she is publicly defaming your fitness as a mother,” Evan said, turning in his seat to look at me directly. “She is using our child’s NICU trauma for Facebook sympathy points. We cannot let this stand.”
“We’re not going to let it stand,” I said. The trembling in my hands had stopped completely. “Take a screenshot of her post. Take a screenshot of the comments. Then we go home, we put our daughter to bed, and we deal with this like adults. Not on her stage.”
Just then, my phone rang again. It wasn’t Carol.
It was Mark.
I hesitated, my finger hovering over the screen. Mark had been the golden child, the boy who could do no wrong, but he had also been the brother who held my hand under the table when Mom would interrogate me about my grades.
I hit accept and put it on speaker.
“Nora?” Mark’s voice was strained, muffled, as if he were hiding in a closet.
“I’m here, Mark. Evan is here too.”
There was a long pause on the other end, punctuated by the sound of running water—he was in the downstairs bathroom, trying to drown out the noise of his voice.
“She’s completely lost her mind, Nora,” Mark said in a frantic whisper. “Jenna and I just packed up the kids and left. We’re in the car right now.”
I blinked, surprised. “You left?”
“Jenna refused to stay,” Mark said, exhaling a ragged breath. “Mom spent forty-five minutes sobbing on the living room floor while Dad patted her back. Then she picked up her phone, drafted that post, and started reading it out loud to us like it was a speech at the UN. Jenna stood up and told her that what she said to you about Lily was disgusting, uncalled for, and borderline sociopathic. Mom turned on Jenna, called her ungrateful, and Jenna packed our boys’ coats before Mom could finish the sentence.”
A small, painful breath escaped my chest. Jenna had always had a spine of steel.
“Did Dad say anything?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Dad told us to ‘keep the peace,’” Mark scoffed, a rare bitterness creeping into his tone. “He always says that. As if peace is something you get by letting a bulldozer roll over you every December. Nora… I’m so sorry. I should have stood up at the table. I should have said something the second she opened her mouth about Lily’s weight.”
“You’re saying it now, Mark,” Evan said quietly from the driver’s seat. “That matters.”
“Mom’s rallying everyone,” Mark warned. “She called Aunt Susan, she called Uncle Dave, she called Pastor Miller. She’s telling everyone that Nora had a manic episode and snatched the baby because Mom offered ‘constructive advice.’ If people start texting you, just know… she’s orchestrating a total blackout on you.”
“Let her,” I said, looking back at Lily, who had shifted in her seat, her cheek pressed against the soft velour of her winter bear blanket. “She thinks this is a game of who gets the most votes at church. She doesn’t understand that the game is over. Lily is not an audience member in Carol’s theater. We are done.”
“Nora… she’s not going to let this go,” Mark said, his voice heavy with dread. “You know how Mom operates. When she loses control, she doesn’t retreat. She escalates.”
“Then she can escalate against a brick wall,” I said. “Drive safe, Mark. Give Jenna a hug for me.”
I ended the call.
I opened Facebook. I didn’t comment. I didn’t argue.
I simply hit the three dots on the corner of Carol’s post, selected *Block Carol Hughes*, and then went through my settings and blocked my father, my aunts, and every flying monkey who had left a sympathetic heart on her status.
Then I looked at Evan. “Let’s go home and make our daughter some dinner.”
***
