Chapter 7: The Referral
I called Ruth before I called anyone else.
She picked up on the second ring.
I told her what Karen Delaney had said.
Ruth was quiet for exactly three seconds.
"All right," she said.
"This is manageable.
Do not panic.
Here's what you do."
I stood in the hallway of my mom's house with my back to the living room, listening.
"Call Karen Delaney back.
Be cooperative, be warm, be completely calm.
Agree to a visit.
Offer her the earliest time that works.
Do not mention Derek or what you suspect.
Let her do her job." A pause.
"Where are the boys right now?"
"With my mom.
They're fine.
They've been fine."
"Good.
When Karen visits, she will see two healthy, well-cared-for children with their mother and grandmother.
She will see a woman with a broken arm who made a sensible decision to stay with family while recovering.
That is the truth, and the truth is on your side."
"He called them," I said.
"He actually called them."
"Yes.
And that tells us something important — he escalated faster than I expected, which usually means the person is more frightened than they're letting on." Ruth's voice was steady.
"He thought this would bring you home immediately.
When it doesn't, we'll see what he does next."
I called Karen Delaney back.
She was professional and neutral and gave nothing away.
We arranged a visit for the following morning at my mom's address.
She said it would take about an hour.
I went back into the living room.
My mom looked up.
I told her.
She didn't flinch.
She reached over and picked up one of the boys — Eli, the smaller one, the one who always knew when something was wrong — and held him against her shoulder.
"Then we'll be ready," she said.
That evening I went through everything again.
The cast on my arm.
The medical paperwork from the hospital.
The discharge notes that said clearly: *patient advised to avoid lifting heavy objects.* The text messages from Derek.
The ones where he refused to help.
The one where he said I did nothing all day.
The one where he said moms don't get sick days.
The one that said *I'm going to have to make some calls.*
I laid them all out on the kitchen table and photographed each one.
Then I wrote a timeline.
Every date I could remember.
Every refusal.
Every night I'd been up alone.
The day I'd asked him to help bathe the boys and he'd crossed his arms.
The day my mom had started coming over because I couldn't manage alone.
The day she couldn't come and I'd asked Derek again and he'd said I did nothing all day.
I wrote it all down by hand, slowly, my left hand cramping slightly because my right was in the cast.
My mom sat across from me and didn't say anything.
She just stayed.
Karen Delaney arrived at nine thirty the next morning.
She was calm and unhurried.
She sat on the sofa and asked me questions in a tone that was neither warm nor cold — just careful.
She asked about the boys' routine.
Their feeding.
Their sleep.
Their health.
She asked about my arm, how it had happened, what the doctor had said.
I answered everything clearly and directly.
At one point she said: "Can you tell me why you're staying here rather than at home?"
"My arm is broken," I said.
"My husband wasn't able to help with the babies.
My mother has been helping me.
It made sense to be here while I recover."
"Has there been any conflict at home?"
"My husband and I disagreed about how much support I needed.
I decided to give us both some space while I thought about what to do next."
Karen nodded and wrote something down.
She asked to see where the boys slept.
I showed her the travel cot, the neatly folded blankets, the row of labeled bottles in the fridge, the changing area my mom had set up on the spare bed.
She looked at my cast.
"That looks uncomfortable," she said.
"It is," I said.
"But we're managing."
She left forty minutes later.
She said she would be in touch.
I closed the door and leaned against it.
My mom was standing in the hallway with Eli on her hip and the other boy, Noah, in the crook of her other arm.
"Well?" she said.
"I think it went all right."
My mom nodded once.
Then: "Derek called the house phone while you were with her."
I looked at her.
"I didn't answer," she said.
"But he left a message."
She handed me the small notepad she'd written it down on, word for word, the way she always did with messages.
May you like
*Tell her I know she's been talking to someone.
Tell her she needs to come home before this gets worse for everyone.*
