Chapter 1 - Before the Funeral
My water broke at 8:16 p.m. on Judith Parker’s hardwood floor.
I know the exact time because the grandfather clock behind her had just chimed once after the quarter hour when she grabbed my hair.
“Let go of me!”
Judith yanked backward.
At nine months pregnant, balance was already difficult.
My heel slipped.
My shoulder struck the hallway wall.
Pain shot through my back.
Then warmth rushed down my legs.
For one stunned second, all three of us stared.
Judith.
Victor Brooks.
Me.
I put both hands around my stomach.
“No.”
Another contraction tightened.
Victor looked at the floor.
“Her water broke.”
“I know what happened,” Judith snapped.
“Call an ambulance.”
Neither moved.
Six weeks earlier I had buried Nathan Parker, my husband of five years.
He was thirty five.
He died when his SUV left a wet mountain road outside Front Royal, Virginia, struck a barrier, and rolled into a ravine.
Police called it a single vehicle crash.
No alcohol.
No other car identified.
Nathan had been driving home from one of Parker Heritage Construction’s restoration sites.
At first, grief made every explanation sound distant.
Road.
Rain.
Speed.
Metal.
Death.
I had been thirty three weeks pregnant.
I barely remembered funeral.
Judith remembered everything.
Who sat where.
Who brought flowers.
Which relatives hugged me too long.
Which lawyer asked about Nathan’s will.
Which board member called me instead of her.
Afterward, she began calling every morning.
“Come stay here until the baby is born.”
I said no.
Then:
“Nathan would want his child in the family home.”
We had our own home.
Then:
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
I wasn’t.
Friends rotated.
My obstetrician knew.
Nathan’s estate attorney checked in.
But Judith kept asking.
Finally that Sunday, I agreed to dinner because she said she wanted to give me several boxes of Nathan’s childhood things.
I arrived carrying my hospital bag in the car because my due date was close.
I expected photographs.
Baby blankets.
Maybe an apology.
Instead Judith met me at the door with paperwork.
“Sit.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
“You haven’t read it.”
“I have a lawyer.”
Her face changed.
Nathan’s estate attorney, Sarah Caldwell, had already warned me:
Do not sign family documents while grieving.
Nathan’s will named me executor.
His controlling interest in Parker Heritage Construction would eventually be held partly in trust for our child.
The company agreement was complicated.
Judith had opinions.
Opinions were not authority.
When I stood to leave, she blocked me.
“Emily, this family has already lost Nathan.”
“And I lost my husband.”
“You are carrying what is left of him.”
My entire body went cold.
“My baby is not what is left of Nathan.”
Judith grabbed my arm.
I pulled free.
Then her hand went into my hair.
Now my water had broken.
“Call an ambulance,” I repeated.
Victor walked toward my handbag lying beside entry table.
For one second, relief.
Then he pulled out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
He placed it on floor.
And brought his boot down.
The screen cracked.
I stared.
Victor looked sick immediately afterward.
Judith did not.
“You’re staying,” she said.
“You just destroyed my phone.”
“You’re hysterical.”
“I’m in labor.”
“We can handle a few contractions.”
I grabbed banister.
“Victor.”
He looked at Judith.
Not me.
That frightened me more than pain.
“Call 911.”
Judith stepped between us.
“No one is calling anybody until this is settled.”
“Until what is settled?”
Her eyes moved toward entry table.
That was when I saw envelope.
Thick.
Manila.
My name typed across front.
EMILY PARKER.
Below it:
NATHAN PARKER ESTATE AND MINOR BENEFICIARY DOCUMENTS.
I stopped begging.
Judith noticed my gaze and immediately put her hand over envelope.
“That is private.”
“It has my name.”
“It concerns the child.”
“What about the child?”
Another contraction came.
I pressed forehead against wall.
Victor whispered:
“Judith.”
“Shut up.”
He looked at envelope.
Then at me.
I watched him.
Nervous.
Not loyal.
Not cruel anymore.
Afraid.
I asked:
“When were those papers prepared?”
Judith answered instantly.
“After Nathan’s funeral.”
Victor looked down.
Tiny.
But I saw.
“You lied.”
She turned toward him.
“Victor.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Another contraction.
Closer.
I breathed.
Then Victor said something that made Judith’s face go white.
“She had me print them before he died.”
Silence.
I stared.
“What?”
Judith lunged toward him.
“Give me that envelope.”
Victor caught her wrist.
Not violently.
Just enough.
“You told me Emily already knew.”
“Victor.”
“You said Nathan had agreed.”
“Stop talking.”
He pulled envelope from beneath her hand.
Then placed it into mine.
Judith screamed his name.
I opened it.
May you like
The first page was dated seventeen days before Nathan’s crash.
And beneath the heading VOLUNTARY TEMPORARY GUARDIAN DESIGNATION, Judith Parker’s name had already been typed into the blank where my newborn child’s guardian was supposed to go.
