Part One: The Golden Child and the Scapegoat
I said no to babysitting my sister’s kids, so she dumped them in a taxi to my address anyway—except the driver got the address wrong. Three days later, I got the call that destroyed her life. But to understand how one Saturday morning shattered a family beyond repair, you need to understand the foundation that was already cracked.
My sister Victoria has always believed the world should bend to her convenience. This wasn’t arrogance that developed over time; it was cultivated, nurtured, and reinforced from the moment she drew her first breath. Growing up in our suburban Connecticut household, she was the golden child who could do no wrong, while I was expected to be grateful for whatever scraps of attention drifted my way when everyone was finished adoring her.
Our parents, Dorothy and Kenneth Ashford, made it clear from the start that Victoria’s needs, wants, desires, and whims trumped mine in every conceivable situation. It wasn’t subtle. It was the kind of overt favoritism that would have been comedic if it hadn’t defined my entire childhood.
I was seven when I learned exactly where I stood in the family hierarchy. Victoria, four at the time, had decided she wanted my bedroom because it faced east and got better morning light. Not for any practical reason—she was four and couldn’t have cared less about natural lighting. She wanted it because it was mine, and taking things that belonged to me was already her favorite hobby.
“Gwen, honey, you understand, don’t you?” Dorothy had said, her voice taking on that syrupy tone she used when she wanted me to accept something unacceptable. “Your sister needs the better room. She’s more sensitive than you are. The morning sun helps her wake up happier.”
“But it’s my room,” I’d protested, seven years old and not yet beaten down enough to stop fighting. “I like the morning sun too.”
“Don’t be selfish. You’re the older sister. You need to set a good example.”
I moved to the basement. Not a finished, cozy basement bedroom—the actual basement, with concrete floors and exposed pipes and a space heater that barely worked in winter. Dorothy hung a cheerful floral curtain around the furnace and called it “cozy” and “character-building.”
I lived there until I left for college.
The pattern repeated itself in variations for eighteen years. When Victoria wanted to take ballet lessons, my violin lessons were canceled because “we can’t afford both.” When she wanted a sweet sixteen party, my fourteenth birthday was forgotten entirely. When she needed a car for her senior year, the college fund my grandmother had left specifically for me mysteriously evaporated into a down payment for Victoria’s Honda Civic.
“Grandma would have wanted us to do what’s best for the family,” Kenneth had said, avoiding my eyes. “Victoria needs the car to get to her internship. You can take the bus to community college for a year, then transfer.”
“Grandma left that money for my education. She wrote my name on the account.”
“Don’t be ungrateful,” Dorothy snapped. “After everything we’ve done for you. Fed you, housed you, kept you clothed. You think you’re entitled to more?”
I was sixteen. I didn’t understand yet that the housing and feeding and clothing were legal obligations, not gifts I should grovel in appreciation for receiving. I accepted it all with the naive faith of someone who didn’t know better yet, someone who still believed that family meant love and sacrifice and that eventually, my turn would come.
It never came.
I got into state university on a full academic scholarship—something I’d worked toward with the intensity of someone who knew it was her only ticket out. The day I got the acceptance letter, I was ecstatic. I ran into the kitchen waving the paper, shouting the news.
Victoria, home from her sophomore year at a private liberal arts college that cost $50,000 annually, looked up from her phone.
“That’s nice,” Dorothy said, not looking up from chopping vegetables. “Victoria, honey, did you decide on that summer program in Florence?”
“I think so. It’s expensive, but Dad said we’d make it work.”
I stood there holding my scholarship letter, invisible again. I went back to my basement room and cried, but quietly, so no one would hear and tell me I was being dramatic.
College became my escape. I majored in finance, joined the investment club, worked two part-time jobs to cover expenses the scholarship didn’t, and built a life separate from the dysfunction I’d grown up swimming in. I made friends who didn’t understand why I rarely talked about my family. I dated people who were shocked when they finally met my parents and witnessed the dynamic firsthand.
“They treat you like staff, not a daughter,” my boyfriend James said after his first and only Ashford family dinner. “It’s creepy as hell.”
We broke up three months later, but not because of my family. Still, his observation stayed with me. He was right. I was staff—the built-in babysitter, the emergency contact, the person you called when you needed something but never thought to include in celebrations or ask about her life.
Victoria married Nathan Brennan when she was twenty-four, just two years out of college. Nathan was a real estate developer, exactly the kind of ambitious, successful man Dorothy had always insisted Victoria deserved. He was handsome in that generically attractive way—tall, good jawline, expensive haircut, perfect teeth. He treated Victoria like a princess, bankrolled her lifestyle without question, and seemed genuinely smitten with her.
I liked Nathan, actually. He was kind to me in ways my own family wasn’t, asking about my job, remembering details from previous conversations, treating me like a person rather than an accessory. I remember thinking at their wedding that maybe, just maybe, he’d be a good influence on her. Maybe he’d help her grow up, develop some empathy, become less of the monster our parents had created.
I was wrong, but not about Nathan. I was wrong about Victoria’s capacity for change.
They had two kids in rapid succession: Olivia arrived when Victoria was twenty-six, and Mason followed three years later. I loved those kids fiercely from the moment I met them—loved them despite everything else, loved them in ways that had nothing to do with Victoria or my complicated feelings about her.
They were innocent in all of this, just children caught between the dysfunction of adults who should have known better.
Olivia had Victoria’s blonde hair and delicate features, but she had Nathan’s thoughtful brown eyes and his tendency toward quiet observation. Even as a toddler, she watched everything, processing and analyzing in ways that seemed far too advanced for her age.
Mason was pure energy wrapped in a compact body—dark hair like his father, constant motion, endless questions. “Why is the sky blue? Where do stars go in the daytime? Why can’t dogs talk?” He’d follow me around during visits, chattering nonstop, and I adored every exhausting minute of it.
I became “Auntie Gwen” or just “Awen” in Mason’s toddler pronunciation. I showed up for birthdays with thoughtful gifts instead of expensive ones. I remembered their favorite foods, their fears, their dreams. When Olivia was scared of the dark, I got her a nightlight shaped like a moon. When Mason developed an obsession with dinosaurs, I spent hours researching to find him accurate paleontology books, not the dumbed-down kids’ versions.
“You’re better with them than I am sometimes,” Nathan had said once, watching me and the kids build an elaborate Lego city on his living room floor.
“You’re a great dad,” I’d replied.
“But you… you really see them. You know what they need before they ask.” He’d smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Victoria loves them, but she didn’t really want to change her lifestyle. Kids were supposed to be accessories. She’s frustrated they require so much actual work.”
It was the first crack I’d seen in his facade, the first admission that the perfect marriage might not be so perfect.
Part Two: The Escalation
The problem with Victoria’s parenting started almost immediately but escalated dramatically about a year ago, when she decided she needed more frequent “me time.” Her definition of “me time” bore no resemblance to what normal parents meant by the phrase.
For most people, “me time” meant an hour to read a book, a long bath, maybe a solo trip to the grocery store. For Victoria, “me time” meant expensive spa weekends in the Berkshires, shopping trips to Manhattan that cost more than I made in a month, and wine tastings in the Hamptons with her book club friends who didn’t read books.
And she expected me to provide free childcare with minimal notice, completely disregarding that I had a full-time job as a financial analyst at a respected firm and a life of my own.
The first few times, I said yes. Old habits die hard. The script I’d been given as a child—the one that said my needs didn’t matter, that good sisters helped without complaint, that saying no made you selfish—was hard to break.
But the pattern became unbearable.
She’d call on Thursday and expect me to be available Friday. She’d text at 7 AM saying she’d drop the kids off at my apartment at 8 AM, giving me no choice. She’d promise to pick them up by 6 PM and show up at 10, reeking of wine and annoyed that I was annoyed.
“Don’t be so uptight,” she’d say, swaying slightly in my doorway. “The kids are fine. They’re asleep anyway.”
“You said six hours ago you’d be here by six,” I’d reply, exhausted from entertaining two kids all day after working a full week, my own weekend plans cancelled yet again.
“Things ran late. You don’t have kids. You don’t understand how much I need this break.”
The guilt trip was her favorite weapon. You don’t have kids. As if my childlessness—which was a choice, thank you very much—negated my right to my own time, my own life, my own boundaries.
I started saying no more frequently, which Victoria interpreted as a personal attack.
“You’re being so selfish lately,” she complained to Dorothy during a family dinner about six months before the incident. “I ask her for one tiny favor and she acts like I’m asking her to donate a kidney.”
“Gwen, honey, family helps family,” Dorothy said, her tone making it clear who was in the wrong. “Victoria needs support. Being a mother is the hardest job in the world.”
“I have a demanding career too,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “I can’t drop everything with an hour’s notice every time Victoria wants a spa day.”
“A career isn’t the same as children,” Kenneth said, his rare intervention naturally siding with his favorite daughter. “Kids are a real responsibility.”
So managing portfolios worth hundreds of millions of dollars, keeping clients from financial ruin, performing analysis that influenced major business decisions—that wasn’t a “real responsibility.” Good to know where I stood.
The tension had been building for months. Every refused babysitting request became evidence of my selfishness. Every time I stood my ground, I was being ungrateful for all the family had done for me.
Never mind that the family had done exactly the bare minimum required by law while lavishing Victoria with everything she wanted. Never mind that I’d raised myself in a basement room while they threw money at Victoria’s every whim. None of that mattered when Victoria needed something.
Part Three: The Phone Call
Last month—October 13th, to be exact, a date that’s now seared into my brain—Victoria called on a Thursday afternoon while I was in the middle of a critical presentation for a potential client worth $30 million. My phone buzzed relentlessly on the conference room table, Victoria’s smiling face lighting up the screen again and again.
I ignored it the first five times. On the sixth call, my boss Angela raised an eyebrow, her silent question clear: Do you need to get that?
I excused myself, stepping into the hallway with my heart pounding and my professional reputation hanging in the balance.
“What?” I answered, not bothering to hide my irritation.
“I need you to watch the kids this weekend,” Victoria announced without preamble, without greeting, without even a pretense of asking rather than demanding.
“I can’t. I have plans.”
“Cancel them. Nathan booked us a surprise trip to Vermont—some romantic inn thing—and we leave tomorrow morning. The kids are all packed. I’ll drop them at your place Friday evening.”
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. “Victoria, I’m asking you—not telling you, asking you—to find someone else. I have a work commitment I can’t reschedule. A professional development conference I registered for three months ago.”
“A conference?” Her voice dripped with disdain. “That’s not important. This is family.”
“It’s important to my career, which pays my bills and supports my life. The life you seem to think exists solely to accommodate your schedule.”
“You’re so selfish,” she hissed, her voice climbing toward that particular register she used when she wasn’t getting her way. “Family is supposed to help family. What’s more important than your niece and nephew?”
“This isn’t about them. This is about you assuming I have no life of my own, no commitments of my own, no value beyond being your free backup childcare.”
“I can’t believe you. Do you know how much I do for those kids? Do you know how hard it is being a mother? Nathan and I need this trip. We need time to reconnect. But no, you’re too busy with your stupid little conference to help your own family.”
Something in me snapped. Years of basement bedrooms and stolen college funds and canceled plans and disrespected boundaries crystallized into clarity.
“No, Victoria. I’m not doing it. Find a babysitter. Hire a service. Ask Nathan’s parents. Ask one of your book club friends. Ask literally anyone else. But I am not available this weekend.”
“You’re going to regret this,” she said, her voice going cold. “When you need something from this family, don’t come crying to us.”
She hung up.
I stood in that hallway, hands shaking, and felt something shift inside me. A door closing. A boundary being reinforced with steel. I walked back into that conference room, apologized professionally for the interruption, and delivered a presentation that ultimately won us the client.
Angela pulled me aside afterward. “Everything okay?”
“Family drama. It’s handled.”
“You sure? You seem shaken.”
“I will be sure,” I replied. “I’m making some changes to how I handle my family’s expectations.”
I thought that was the end of it. I thought Victoria would do what any reasonable parent would do: accept the no, find alternative childcare, handle her own responsibilities like an adult.
I was so, terribly wrong.
Part Four: The Call That Changed Everything
Saturday, October 15th arrived cool and crisp, one of those perfect autumn mornings where the air smells like fallen leaves and possibility. I woke up early, excited about the conference. I’d been looking forward to it for months—the keynote speaker was someone I’d admired for years, and there were breakout sessions on emerging market analysis that would be directly applicable to my work.
I was sitting at my kitchen table in my apartment—my real apartment, the one at 847 West Riverside Drive, apartment 12C, the address I’d lived at for three years—running through my notes over coffee when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Usually, I’d let those go to voicemail, but something made me answer. Instinct. Fate. The universe giving me one last chance to save two children from their mother’s recklessness.
“Hello?”
“Is this the residence of Ms. Gwen Ashford? The person who lives at 847 Riverside Drive, apartment 12C?”
The formal tone made my stomach drop. Official calls are never good news.
“Yes, this is she. Who’s calling?”
“This is Officer Garrett Mills with the NYPD, 19th Precinct. Ma’am, we have two minors here who were found alone outside an apartment building. They had a note with this address and your name on it.”
The world tilted sideways. “What? What are you talking about? What minors?”
“Two children, approximately ages eight and five, a girl and a boy. They were dropped off by a taxi driver at 847 Riverside Drive, but there’s no apartment 12C in that building. The building only goes up to eight floors. The children were left standing on the sidewalk. A neighbor found them crying and called 911.”
Ice water flooded my veins, cold and sharp and terrifying. “Wait. Wait, I live at 847 Riverside Drive, apartment 12C. But that’s 847 West Riverside Drive. Is the address on the note missing the ‘West’?”
Papers rustled on the other end of the line. “Let me check the note they had.” A pause that felt eternal. “Yes, it just says 847 Riverside Drive, apartment 12C. The taxi driver took them to 847 East Riverside, which is a completely different building on the other side of Manhattan. Approximately six miles from the address you just gave me.”
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. My coffee mug tipped over, brown liquid spreading across my carefully organized notes. I didn’t care. I couldn’t process anything except the horrifying image of two small children standing confused and scared on a sidewalk in Manhattan because their mother couldn’t be bothered to write down a complete address.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, are they okay? Are they hurt?”
“They’re frightened and very upset, but physically unharmed. Can you verify their identities? They say their names are Olivia and Mason Brennan.”
“Yes.” The word came out as a sob. “Yes, those are my niece and nephew. Victoria’s kids. Where are they now? Can I come get them? Are they safe?”
“They’re here at the 19th Precinct station, 153 East 67th Street. We need a guardian to come pick them up immediately. How quickly can you get here?”
“Twenty minutes. Less. I’m leaving right now.” I was already grabbing my keys, shoving my feet into the nearest shoes—tennis shoes with my pajama pants, I’d realize later, but I didn’t care. “Please tell them I’m coming. Please tell them they’re safe. Please tell them Aunt Gwen is on her way.”
“We’ll tell them, ma’am. Drive safely.”
I didn’t drive safely. I’m not proud of it, but I ran three yellow lights and probably broke every traffic law getting to that precinct. My mind was spinning with horrible scenarios—what if someone had grabbed them? What if they’d wandered into traffic? What if, what if, what if?
Six miles. They’d been six miles from where they were supposed to be, two small children alone in a city of eight million people, because Victoria had been too careless, too rushed, too self-absorbed to verify the address she was sending them to.
No. Not sending them. Abandoning them. Because she’d known I said no. She’d known I wasn’t expecting them. She’d done this deliberately, as punishment for my boundary-setting, as a way to force me into compliance.
And she’d put her children at risk to do it.
The 19th Precinct was organized chaos when I arrived. I burst through the doors still in my pajama pants and tennis shoes, wild-eyed and breathless. The desk sergeant looked up, taking in my appearance with the weary expression of someone who’d seen everything.
“I’m Gwen Ashford,” I gasped out. “Officer Mills called about two children—Olivia and Mason Brennan—they’re my niece and nephew, I’m here to get them, please, where are they?”
His expression softened. “Hold on.” He picked up a phone, spoke quietly, then nodded. “Officer Mills is bringing them out now.”
A minute later—the longest minute of my life—a female officer appeared from a back hallway, guiding two small figures. Olivia’s face was streaked with dried tears, her blonde hair a tangled mess. Mason was clutching a stuffed blue dinosaur I’d given him for his fifth birthday, his knuckles white with the grip of absolute terror not yet released.
“Aunt Gwen!” Olivia launched herself at me, a projectile of eight-year-old relief and fear and trauma. She hit me hard enough to knock me back a step, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressing into my stomach as sobs wracked her small body.
I dropped to my knees and pulled Mason into the embrace too, holding them both as tightly as I dared, feeling their rapid heartbeats against mine, trying to absorb some of their fear into myself so they’d have to carry less of it.
“You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’ve got you.” I repeated it like a mantra, like a prayer, like a promise. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”
Officer Mills—a woman in her early forties with kind eyes that had seen too much—stood nearby, giving us space but staying close. She had a clipboard and that particular expression police officers get when they’re trying to maintain professional detachment but are personally affected by what they’ve witnessed.
“Aunt Gwen, we were so scared,” Olivia said between sobs, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “The man dropped us off and said ‘this is it’ but there was no apartment 12C and nobody knew who we were and a lady found us sitting on the steps and she called the police and they brought us here and we didn’t know if anyone was coming to get us…”
“Shh, baby, I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry this happened to you.”
“Are you mad at us?” Mason asked, his voice small and scared. “Mom said you didn’t want to watch us. Did we do something bad?”
My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. “Oh, buddy. No. No, no, no. You didn’t do anything bad. Nothing that happened is your fault. You hear me? None of this is your fault.”
Officer Mills cleared her throat gently. “Ms. Ashford, when you’re ready, we need to go through some paperwork and get statements. There’s a room down the hall that’s a bit more comfortable.”
I nodded, helping the kids to their feet but not letting go of their hands. “Can you walk with me?”
They nodded, Mason’s grip tightening on my fingers.
Officer Mills led us to a small room with a table, some chairs, and—thank God—a basket of toys and books in the corner. “Why don’t you guys pick out something to play with while I talk to your aunt?” she suggested to the kids.
They hesitated, neither wanting to leave my side.
“I’ll be right here,” I promised. “Right at this table. You can see me the whole time.”
Olivia reluctantly led Mason to the toy basket. They settled in the corner, not really playing, just holding books they weren’t reading, staying close to each other. Safety in numbers.
Officer Mills sat across from me. “I need to document this incident. Can you walk me through your relationship to these children and what you knew about today?”
I took a shaky breath and laid it all out: Victoria asking me to babysit, my clear refusal, her hanging up on me Thursday afternoon, my assumption that she’d accepted my no and found alternative childcare. The conference I’d been planning to attend. The lack of any communication from Victoria that the kids were being sent anywhere.
“So you had no knowledge they were coming to your address?”
“None. Zero. If I’d known, I would have been there. Or I would have told her absolutely not to send them alone. This is…” I struggled to find words. “This is insane. Who puts two small children in a taxi alone? Who doesn’t verify an address? What if—” My voice broke. “What if something had happened to them?”
Officer Mills’s expression was grim. “Ms. Ashford, I need you to understand something. What your sister did—sending minors unaccompanied in a taxi to an address she didn’t verify, without confirming someone would be there to receive them—that’s child endangerment. That’s criminal behavior.”
The words hung in the air between us. Criminal behavior. Victoria had committed a crime. Against her own children.
“We’ll need to file a formal report. We’ll need to contact the children’s parents and inform them of the situation. Do you have contact information for your sister?”
“Yes.” I pulled out my phone with numb fingers. “She’s in Vermont with her husband. Some romantic weekend getaway. That’s why she wanted me to watch them.”
As if summoned by speaking her name, my phone buzzed. Victoria calling.
I stared at it, rage building in my chest like a hurricane forming over warm waters.
“You should probably answer that,” Officer Mills suggested.
I picked up and immediately unleashed everything I’d been holding back for thirty-two years.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Finally! Jesus, I’ve been calling for hours. Where are my kids? The taxi driver texted me saying he dropped them off at your building at nine-thirty. Why haven’t you called to confirm you have them?”
Her annoyance—her annoyance at me—was the match that lit the fire.
“Your kids are at a police station, Victoria. A POLICE STATION. Because you put them in a taxi to an address that doesn’t exist.”
Silence. I could hear her breathing, could hear the exact moment my words penetrated her self-absorbed bubble.
“What are you talking about?” Her voice had gone thin. “I sent them to your apartment. 847 Riverside Drive, apartment 12C. That’s your address.”
“I live at 847 WEST Riverside Drive. WEST. You wrote down 847 Riverside Drive with no directional designation. The driver took them to 847 East Riverside, which is a completely different building on the opposite side of Manhattan. One that doesn’t even have a 12C. One that only goes up to eight floors.”
“But—”
“Your children were found by a stranger, sitting on the steps of a building they didn’t know, in a neighborhood they didn’t recognize, with no way to contact anyone because you sent them with a note that had the wrong address. A neighbor called 911. They’ve been at the 19th Precinct station for the last three hours. Olivia is hysterical. Mason hasn’t stopped shaking.”
“That’s… the taxi driver must have made a mistake. He went to the wrong—”
“No, Victoria. YOU made the mistake. You wrote down an incomplete address. You didn’t verify it. You didn’t confirm anyone would be there. You didn’t call me to tell me they were coming despite knowing I’d said no. You put your eight-year-old and five-year-old in a cab alone and sent them across Manhattan with a piece of paper that had wrong information on it. This is YOUR fault.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me!” Her voice climbed toward hysteria. “This is YOUR fault for not agreeing to help! If you’d just said yes like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened! You’re the one who caused this!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Even now, even faced with the consequences of her own actions, she was trying to blame me.
Officer Mills held out her hand for my phone. I gave it to her, grateful to have someone else take over.
“Mrs. Brennan, this is Officer Garrett Mills with the NYPD,” she said, her voice taking on the formal tone of authority. “Your children were found abandoned on a sidewalk in Manhattan at approximately 9:45 this morning. We’re filing a child endangerment report. You need to return to New York City immediately to answer questions and retrieve your children.”
I couldn’t hear Victoria’s response, but I could imagine it—excuses, blame-shifting, probably accusations that I’d orchestrated this somehow.
“That’s not optional, ma’am,” Officer Mills continued, her voice hardening. “If you fail to return within twenty-four hours, we’ll be forwarding this case to Child Protective Services. Your children will be placed in temporary custody until we can conduct a full investigation into whether they’re safe in your care.”
She ended the call and handed back my phone.
“She’s coming back?” I asked.
“She says she needs to talk to her husband first. I told her twenty-four hours, but honestly, this case is going to CPS regardless. Two unaccompanied minors sent to a wrong address? That’s a textbook case of neglect.”
The next several hours blurred together. I gave a formal statement, detailed every interaction I’d had with Victoria regarding childcare, provided phone records showing her demands and my refusals. They photographed the note Victoria had given the children—sure enough, just “847 Riverside Drive, Apt 12C” in her handwriting. No “West.” No phone number. No backup information.
The taxi company was contacted. The driver confirmed he’d been given that exact address by a blonde woman who’d waved cheerfully as he drove away with two confused children in his backseat. He was also facing questions about why he’d accepted unaccompanied minors without verification, but that was a separate investigation.
I called Nathan directly. He answered on the second ring, his voice relaxed and happy—the voice of someone whose romantic weekend hadn’t yet exploded.
“Gwen! Hey, how are the kids? Everything going okay?”
“Nathan.” I steadied my voice. “I need you to sit down. Something’s happened.”
“What? What’s wrong? Are Olivia and Mason okay?”
“They’re physically fine. But they’re at a police station because Victoria put them in a taxi to a wrong address and they were found alone on a sidewalk by a stranger.”
Silence. Then: “What?”
I explained everything. With each detail, I could hear Nathan’s breathing getting faster, his shock transforming into horror and then rage.
“She told me you’d agreed to watch them,” he finally said, his voice tight with fury. “She said you’d worked it out, that she was dropping them with you Friday night. I asked if you were sure it was okay, and she said you were happy to help, that you’d cleared your schedule. I never would have gone along with this if I’d known she was lying.”
“I believe you.”
“We’re coming back right now. Right now. I’m getting in the car. We’ll be there in four hours.”
“Nathan, the police want to talk to both of you. They’ve filed a child endangerment report. This is serious.”
“Good,” he said, and there was something in his voice I’d never heard before. Something cold and final. “It should be serious. This is unforgivable.”
Dorothy called next. Of course she did. Victoria must have called her immediately, spinning her version of events to get mommy on her side.
“How could you do this to your sister?” Dorothy demanded, not even bothering with a greeting. “Calling the police on her? Making her out to be some kind of criminal? She made a simple mistake!”
“A simple mistake?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “She abandoned her children on a street corner in Manhattan. They could have been kidnapped. They could have been hit by a car wandering around confused. They could have been trafficked. Do you understand what could have happened?”
“You’re being dramatic. They were fine.”
“They were found crying by a stranger who had to call 911! Olivia was hysterical! Mason hasn’t stopped shaking! They’re traumatized because their mother valued her spa weekend more than their safety!”
“Your sister needed that trip. Do you know how hard it is being a mother? She deserves breaks. If you’d just helped like family is supposed to—”
“No,” I interrupted. “No, Dorothy. I’m done with this narrative. I’m done being blamed for Victoria’s choices. I said no to babysitting. That’s my right as an autonomous adult with my own life. Victoria’s response to hearing ‘no’ was to commit a crime. She endangered her own children. And you’re going to sit there and defend her?”
“She’s your sister!”
“And those are innocent children! Children you’re supposed to love! But as usual, Victoria’s feelings matter more than anyone else’s safety, including your own grandchildren’s!”
“You’ve always been jealous of Victoria. What does my career or my relationship status have to do with her putting kids in a taxi to a wrong address? How is that jealousy?”
“You’re tearing this family apart.”
“Victoria tore this family apart the moment she chose her convenience over her children’s lives. I’m just refusing to help her cover it up.”
I hung up on her. It felt better than I’d expected..
THE END
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is refuse to enable dysfunction. Sometimes protecting the innocent means becoming the villain in someone else’s story. And sometimes, the family you build by standing your ground is worth more than the family you lose by doing so.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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