Chapter 7: Reckoning and a New Family Bond

She hurriedly grabbed my hand. “You silly child, what are you talking about?” Her voice was brittle, her grip too tight. I whimpered, milking the moment for all it was worth.

I hugged my head and squatted down, squeezing out two crocodile tears. “Waa, Abby knows she was wrong.” The tears were fake, but the pain was real. Dad’s face darkened, thunder gathering behind his eyes.

Marcus Jennings’s face darkened, and he summoned the maids who served me for questioning. His voice was icy, his orders swift. The staff scurried to obey, fear written in every line of their bodies.

Learning that I always got bruises for ‘no reason,’ he flew into a rage on the spot, harshly scolding Lillian and stripping her of her credit cards and household authority. His words were final, his judgment swift. The Jennings name protected me, but it also carried a heavy price.

“If you can’t even care for a child, how can you manage the house? Lillian will stay in her room for now.” Her protests fell on deaf ears. Dad’s word was law, and the staff knew better than to cross him.

Grandma Carol’s face was full of anger, not holding back at all: “Announce my decision—Lillian may not leave without permission.” Her voice carried through the halls, a warning to anyone who thought to challenge her authority.

This was house arrest in disguise. The staff whispered about it for days, some in sympathy, others in quiet approval.

Lillian tried to explain: “Marcus, Marcus, listen to me… Abby is my only child, how could I hit her? Someone must be slandering me!” Her words sounded desperate, but no one believed her. The truth was plain for all to see.

Amanda in the crowd covered her mouth and laughed, stirring the pot: “Mr. Jennings must be joking. Everyone knows the maids in the east wing are the most obedient. All praise your management.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, her eyes alight with mischief. She thrived on chaos, fanning the flames whenever she could.

“Marcus, I know how to raise children. Why not let me raise Abby?” She batted her eyelashes, her tone honey-sweet. Dad barely glanced her way.

Dad looked at me with heartache and calmly replied, “That is your failure as a mother.” His words were a knife, cutting through the noise. The room fell silent, the verdict final.

“From now on, I will personally raise Abby.” He scooped me up, holding me close. The warmth of his embrace chased away the last of my fears.

With that, he carried me away. The crowd parted, the staff bowing their heads. I rested my head on Dad’s shoulder, feeling safe for the first time in a long while.

From Dad’s arms, I poked my little head out, looking at my pale, defeated mother sitting on the ground. Her eyes were empty, her shoulders slumped. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her.

That face, which should have been supremely noble, now showed signs of decline. The mask of dignity had slipped, revealing a woman undone by her own choices.