Chapter 4: The Tea My Mother Brought Every Morning
The lab results came back the following afternoon.
Dr.
Okafor — the OB who had been monitoring me since the night before — pulled a chair close to my bed and sat down like someone who had practiced delivering difficult news and still hadn't made peace with it.
"The compound we found is misoprostol," she said.
"The concentration in your bloodwork suggests repeated low-dose exposure over approximately ten to fourteen days."
"Ten to fourteen days," I repeated.
"Yes.
This was not a single event."
Daniel was standing by the window.
He didn't turn around.
"Is my daughter going to be okay?" I asked.
"Her heartbeat has strengthened overnight.
We're going to keep you on monitoring for at least forty-eight more hours.
If she remains stable, we're cautiously optimistic." Dr.
Okafor paused.
"But I want to be honest with you.
The fact that you came in when you did — because of what happened at that gathering — may have saved her life.
If you had gone another week without knowing, the outcome could have been very different."
I thought about that.
My sister's boot connecting with my stomach.
The thing that was supposed to finish it instead exposing it.
"Someone made a mistake in their timing," I said.
Dr.
Okafor looked at me carefully.
"That's not my area.
But the detective has a full copy of the report."
She left.
The door had barely closed when Daniel turned from the window.
"Your mother called the nurses' station this morning."
"What did she say?"
"She said she wanted to bring you food.
Home-cooked.
She was very insistent about it."
The air went out of the room.
"She doesn't know we know," I said.
"No." He crossed to the chair beside my bed and sat down.
"Detective Reyes wants to use that.
She called me an hour ago.
She wants to know if you're willing to have a controlled conversation with your mother.
Here.
Today."
"A controlled conversation."
"She'd be outside the door.
The room would be recorded.
Your mother would think she's visiting.
You'd ask about the tea."
I looked at the monitor.
My daughter's heartbeat.
Steady now.
Stronger.
"Set it up," I said.
My mother arrived at two in the afternoon.
She was carrying a container of soup and wearing the expression she always wore when she wanted to appear concerned — eyebrows slightly raised, mouth soft, head tilted just enough to signal worry without committing to it.
"They only let me bring this," she said, holding up the container.
"I wanted to bring the tea but they said no outside liquids."
She said it so naturally.
*I wanted to bring the tea.*
"That's okay, Mom." My voice came out steadier than I expected.
"Sit down."
She sat.
She looked at the monitor, then at my stomach, then at me.
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired.
The doctors say the baby is stable."
"Good.
Good." She folded her hands in her lap.
"Your sister feels terrible, you know.
She didn't mean—"
"I know she didn't mean to do it in front of the camera."
My mother's hands stopped moving.
"What does that mean?" she said.
"It means I know about the tea, Mom."
The container of soup sat between us on the tray table.
She looked at it.
Then at me.
Then at the window.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The misoprostol.
Ten to fourteen days.
The doctors were very specific."
"I brought you herbal tea.
It was perfectly safe.
My grandmother—"
"Stop." My voice didn't shake.
I was surprised by that.
"The lab report is already with the police.
They know what was in it.
They know how long.
The only thing they don't have yet is who purchased it and where."
My mother stood up.
The chair scraped back.
"I'm not going to sit here and be accused of—"
"Mom." I looked at her.
Just looked at her.
"Sit down."
She didn't sit down.
But she didn't leave either.
She stood at the side of the bed, and for just a moment, the soft concerned expression slipped.
Underneath it was something I had never seen on her face before.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Calculation.
The same thing I had seen the night before.
"The trust reverts to us if she doesn't make it," she said.
It came out quiet.
Almost gentle.
Like she was explaining something obvious to someone slow.
"Your grandmother should never have written it that way.
It wasn't fair."
"She's your granddaughter."
"She isn't born yet."
The door opened.
Detective Reyes stepped in.
Two officers behind her.
My mother turned.
Saw them.
Looked back at me.
"You recorded this."
"Yes," I said.
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
"Mrs.
Harmon," Detective Reyes said, "I need you to come with us."
My mother picked up her purse.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
She straightened her jacket.
Then she looked at me one last time.
"You were always the difficult one," she said.
The officers walked her out.
The door closed behind them.
I looked at the monitor.
My daughter's heartbeat filled the room.
Outside in the hallway, I heard my mother's voice rising.
Then Detective Reyes's voice, calm and flat, cutting through it.
Then nothing.
Daniel came back in from the corridor where he had been waiting.
He sat down beside me and didn't say anything for a long moment.
"She said it out loud," he finally said.
"She actually said it out loud."
"She thought I was still someone she could explain things to."
He took my hand.
On the monitor, our daughter kicked.
May you like
One sharp, clear movement.
The first one since the grass.
