Chapter 3 - The Broken Toy BoxTwo weeks later, the day finally came for my discharge.
The heavy plaster casts on my legs were removed, replaced by two rigid, fiberglass walking boots that allowed me to take short, painstaking steps with the aid of a aluminum walker. My ribs were still wrapped tight, but the deep purple bruise on my stomach had faded to a light, pale yellow.
Eleanor Vance stood beside me in the hospital lobby as Nurse Elena pushed my wheelchair toward the automatic glass doors.
Parked in the circular driveway was Eleanor’s sleek black sedan. Sitting in the back seat, her face pressed frantically against the glass, was my eight-year-old daughter, Emma.
“Mommy!”
The car door flew open before the vehicle had even completely stopped. Emma sprinted across the concrete, her little pink sneakers squeaking against the pavement, her arms wide open.
“Careful with her ribs, sweetie!” Nurse Elena called out with a smile.
I locked the wheels of my chair, opened my arms, and pulled my baby girl against my chest. Her soft hair smelled of strawberry shampoo and clean laundry. I buried my face in her shoulder, letting out a heavy, sob that I had held inside for twenty-five long days.
“I missed you so much, Mommy,” Emma cried, her small hands clutching the collar of my jacket. “Daddy said you were sick and didn't want to come home. He said you were staying in a big hotel because you didn't love us anymore!”
A cold, razor-sharp fury flared in my chest, but I kept my voice soft, kissing her temple over and over again.
“Daddy was wrong, baby,” I whispered into her hair. “Mommy was just getting her legs fixed so I can run with you again. I’m never leaving you again. Never.”
Eleanor stepped forward, opening the rear door of her car. “Come on, girls. We have an appointment at the house.”
The drive back to our suburban neighborhood felt surreal. The oak trees along the street were dropping their golden autumn leaves; the neighborhood children were riding bikes on the sidewalks. Everything looked so utterly normal, yet everything in my life had been completely torn down to the bedrock.
When Eleanor pulled her sedan into the driveway of our four-bedroom colonial house, my heart dropped into my shoes.
Parked in the driveway was a large, rusted yellow moving truck.
The front front door of my home was wide open. Stacked across the manicured lawn were cardboard boxes, plastic garbage bags, and furniture.
Standing on the porch, holding a thick stack of my accounting textbooks from college and my mother’s heirloom porcelain teacups, was Caleb’s older sister, Brenda—a woman who had spent eleven years treating me like a glorified housekeeper.
“What is going on here?” I demanded, grabbing my walker as Eleanor helped me step out of the car.
Brenda looked up, her face turning pale for a split second before she masked it with her usual sneering contempt. She set the box down on the porch railing and crossed her arms.
“Oh, look who decided to show up,” Brenda sneered, walking down the steps. “Caleb told us you were filing fake police reports to steal his money. Since you’re throwing a fit, he told me and Mom to pack up your little things so we can put the house on the market.”
“This house is subject to an active court freeze, Brenda,” Eleanor said, stepping past me with her briefcase held like a shield, her voice dropping into a register that made Brenda freeze in her tracks. “And you are currently committing criminal trespass and destruction of marital property.”
“Who the hell are you?” Brenda barked.
“I am Rebecca’s attorney,” Eleanor replied smoothly, pulling a white paper from her pocket. “And if you and whoever is inside that house do not drop those boxes and vacate this property within sixty seconds, I will have the four police units currently turning the corner arrest you for felony burglary.”
As if on cue, two marked police cruisers turned onto the street, their light bars flashing blue and red as they pulled up behind the moving truck.
Brenda’s mouth fell open.
Inside the house, Caleb’s mother, Evelyn, stepped out onto the porch holding Emma’s wooden dollhouse—the one my late father had built by hand for her sixth birthday.
“Drop the dollhouse, Evelyn,” I said, stepping forward with my walker, my voice so firm and cold that even my daughter looked up at me in surprise. “Set it down on the porch table gently. If there is a single scratch on it, I will add property destruction to the restraining order against your son.”
Evelyn set the dollhouse down as if it were made of live dynamite.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” Evelyn hissed, her voice shaking with rage as she walked down the steps past the police officers. “Caleb gave you everything! He gave you this house! He paid for your clothes! And you treat him like a criminal!”
“Your son punched me in a hospital bed while I was wearing two leg casts, Evelyn,” I said, looking her dead in the eye as she reached her car. “The only place he gave me was a hospital room.”
Within ten minutes, Brenda and Evelyn were escorted off the property by the officers. The moving truck driver, realizing he was caught in the middle of a high-stakes legal war, dumped the boxes on the driveway and sped away.
I walked into my home with Emma holding my hand.
The living room had been gutted—Caleb had taken the big-screen television, his leather armchair, and all the silver framed family photos, leaving behind only the empty hooks on the walls.
I sat down on the edge of the bare sofa, looking around the empty room.
Emma sat beside me, leaning her head against my arm. “Mommy? Are we going to be poor now?”
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I looked down at my daughter, pulling her close. I looked out the front window where Eleanor was talking to the police officers, holding a folder containing the financial evidence that would tear Caleb’s lies apart in court.
“No, baby,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “We’re finally going to be rich. Just not the way Daddy thought.”
