At first the entries glowed with uncomplicated hope.
Week 10: Three heartbeats today. I keep laughing at random because I cannot believe my body is doing this.
Week 14: Grant kissed my stomach and cried. For a second, everything felt simple.
Then the shift came, gradual and devastating.
Week 20: He left during the ultrasound because his phone rang. I heard him say “baby” before the hallway door closed. He doesn’t call me baby anymore.
Week 24: Found a gold earring under the passenger seat. Not mine. I don’t wear gold.
Week 27: He told me I’m being dramatic. I told him dramatic women do not hire private investigators. He laughed. He still thinks I’m bluffing.
Dorothy turned pages with increasing care, as if touching them too roughly might wound her daughter all over again.
The final entry, written six days before delivery, was the one that stayed with her longest.
I am not staying because I’m weak.
I am staying because I am carrying three children and nowhere feels safe enough yet.
But I am getting ready.
Every day, I am getting ready.
Dorothy closed the journal and held it against her chest.
That line followed her into sleep and back out again.
Every day, I am getting ready.
No one had seen Colleen preparing because women’s survival work rarely looked dramatic from the outside. It looked like nursery paint samples and prenatal appointments and folded blankets. It looked like a woman still showing up for dinner while quietly building a file that could outlive her.
Two days before the hearing, Doctor Nina Prescott called.
Dorothy stood at the hotel window while listening, one hand resting on the glass.
“I need to tell you something,” the doctor said.
Her voice carried the controlled strain of someone who had replayed a memory too many times.
“Colleen spoke to me the week before delivery. She asked several questions about emergency complications, which isn’t unusual with a high-risk pregnancy. But before she left, she said—if something goes wrong, make sure my mother gets the babies. Not Grant. My mother.”
Dorothy shut her eyes.
“I told her nothing would go wrong,” Doctor Prescott said. “I was wrong. I can’t fix that, but I can testify to what she told me.”
Dorothy swallowed hard. “Thank you.”