Chapter 8
The next week was a blur.
Bethany was arrested.
She was released on bail.
My parents paid for her lawyer.
A good one.
Expensive.
We hired a lawyer too.
Sarah and I pooled our savings.
We would have sold everything if we had to.
Our lawyer was a woman named Karen.
She was tough.
Smart.
She had handled dozens of cases like this.
"They're going to try to make this about you," she told us in her office. "About your divorce. About why you were at the dinner. About whether you're a fit parent. They'll try to paint Bethany as a loving aunt who made a small mistake. And you as an angry, violent man who attacked his own sister."
"But that's not true," Sarah said.
"I know," Karen said. "And we'll prove it. But we need to be prepared. They're going to dig into your lives. Everything. Be ready."
We were ready.
Or at least, we thought we were.
A week later, the papers were filed.
And the attacks began.
First, it was social media.
My aunt posted something on Facebook.
About how family should stick together.
About how some people would do anything for attention.
She didn't name names.
But everyone knew who she was talking about.
Then my cousin posted something worse.
About how "broken homes" produce broken children.
About how Sarah and I were using our daughter as a weapon.
Sarah saw it first.
She showed me her phone.
I felt my blood boil.
"Don't," Sarah said. "Don't engage. That's what they want."
She was right.
But it was hard.
Hard to see people we had known our whole lives lie about us.
Hard to see them defend the woman who had hurt our daughter.
Then it got worse.
My mother showed up at Sarah's work.
The hospital.
She found Sarah in the break room.
She caused a scene.
Shouting about how Sarah had turned me against the family.
About how Sarah was a bad mother.
About how we were going to burn in hell.
Security escorted her out.
But the damage was done.
Sarah's coworkers stared.
Whispered.
Sarah came home that night crying.
I held her.
"I'm so sorry," I said.
"It's not your fault," she said. "They're just... they're evil."
I kissed the top of her head.
"We'll get through this," I said.
But I was starting to wonder.
How much more could we take?
The next day, I was at the grocery store.
I was pushing Rosie in the cart.
She was pointing at apples, asking for the red ones.
I saw my uncle.
He was standing at the end of the aisle.
Watching us.
He didn't approach.
He just stared.
A cold, judgmental stare.
I turned the cart around.
I went down another aisle.
I paid quickly.
I left.
But the feeling stayed with me.
The feeling of being watched.
Judged.
Hunted.
I got in the car.
Rosie was singing a song from her favorite cartoon.
She didn't notice anything.
She was happy.
Safe.
For now.
I looked in the rearview mirror.
No one was there.
But I still felt eyes on me.
I started the car.
I drove home.
May you like
And I knew.
This was just the beginning.
