My mother-in-law told my husband I had aborted our baby and fled town with a local handyman.
The weight of Evelyn’s threat settled heavy on my shoulders. Magistrate Holbrook had returned, taken in the new filings with a long sigh, and declared another recess to “consult with relevant municipal departments” regarding the suddenly-appearing $250,000 lien. He sent us to wait in the decaying municipal library, just off the main courtroom.
The library was a dusty, forgotten space, filled with antiquated shelves overflowing with brittle books and local records, none of them digitized. It smelled of old paper and wood rot. Julian sat stiffly on a worn leather armchair, avoiding my gaze, occasionally glancing at Lily. Evelyn sat across from him, already on her phone, undoubtedly orchestrating the next wave of legal attacks.
Lily, however, was oblivious. The sudden change of scenery, away from the stuffy courtroom, delighted her. She wriggled out of my arms, her small, determined legs carrying her across the creaking floorboards.
“Lily, sweetie, stay close,” I murmured, my voice strained.
But she was already off, a tiny explorer in a vast, silent forest of books. She giggled, pointing at a faded tapestry, then at a stuffed owl perched precariously on a high shelf. I watched her, my heart aching with the impossible choice Evelyn had presented.
She toddled past rows of tall oak shelves, her steps surprisingly quick for an eighteen-month-old. Her bright red wooden bird toy, a gift from my father, clutched in her hand, bobbed with each step. My eyes followed her as she disappeared behind a particularly dense stack of archive boxes, into an unlit storage area.
“Lily!” I called, pushing myself up. Julian looked up briefly, then back down at his hands. Evelyn ignored us completely.
I navigated through the dimly lit aisles, my footsteps echoing softly. The back of the library was even darker, a labyrinth of forgotten town history. Here, the shelves gave way to towering metal racks, crammed with more boxes and bound ledgers. In the corner, almost swallowed by the shadows, stood an old roll-top desk.
A jolt went through me. I recognized it instantly. It was the desk my grandfather, a skilled carpenter, had made for the town clerk decades ago. A beautiful piece of craftsmanship, solid oak with intricate carvings. Evelyn had always hated that desk, claiming it took up too much space and was “too common” for the Albright family’s status. She’d made sure it was banished to this dark corner years ago.
Lily was crouched beside it, her small fingers poking at a loose wooden baseboard along the bottom. She looked up at me, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Mama! Birdie!” she exclaimed, pointing.
Just then, her red wooden bird slipped from her grasp. With a soft clatter, it disappeared into the gap behind the desk, between the loose baseboard and the dusty wall. Lily’s lower lip began to tremble.
“Oh, no, sweetie,” I said, kneeling beside her. “Don’t worry, Mama will get it.”
I leaned down, my fingers probing the narrow, dusty space behind the desk. My hand brushed against something smooth and papery, not the familiar wood of Lily’s toy. It felt like an envelope.
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