They didn’t ask how I was healing. They didn’t mention the grandson they lost. They didn’t offer a single shred of sympathy for the physical and psychological trauma I was enduring. Their only concern was protecting the monster who had kicked a pregnant woman.
Yesterday, my mother actually showed up at our apartment, begging on her knees through the locked screen door.

She offered me my entire childhood inheritance on the spot if I signed an affidavit refusing to cooperate with the prosecution. She told me I could just “have another baby,” but Erica only had one life.
I looked at my mother through the glass—this woman who had watched me bleed on her floor and accused me of faking it.

“Erica killed my son,” I said, my voice steady, devoid of the fear I used to carry around them. “And you watched. The only time I want to see any of you again is when I’m standing on the witness stand, ensuring she gets the maximum sentence.”
I shut the heavy wooden door in her face and locked it. My family thought they could keep treating me like a ghost. But they forgot that ghosts have nothing left to lose—and a mother seeking justice for her child is the most dangerous force on earth.