My sister demanded I give her my baby when he’s born

“Until I was 11. That’s when I started fighting back. Really fighting: screaming, locking myself in my room. She couldn’t hold me down anymore so she stopped.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “This is the longest it’s ever been. 14 years old and I’m finally allowed to have hair past my ears. Lucky me.”

The sarcasm in her voice was sharp, but I could hear the pain underneath it. And no one could help, no matter what.

“My teacher saw the bruises but she always had an excuse: I fell, I was playing rough, I was a difficult child. And everyone believed her because she’s so good at being the victim.”

She looked at me. “You saw it at dinner. The way she turned it around on you.”

“I saw it,” I nodded.

“I just didn’t understand how deep it went.” I thought about all the family gatherings over the years.

All the times I’d seen Jordan sitting quietly in the corner. All the times I’d noticed something seemed off but told myself it wasn’t my business.

I should have said something. I should have done something.

“It goes all the way down.” Jordan picked at a thread on the couch cushion.

“She only let me wear boy’s clothes: jeans, t-shirts, nothing with flowers or pink or anything girly. When I started middle school, teachers asked questions so she let me wear some girl stuff to school. But at home it was back to the same thing.”

Zach shook his head. “And let me guess: she used that ‘grieving widow raising a difficult daughter all by herself’ excuse that she loves so much when questions start getting heavy?”

Jordan laughed bitterly. “Yeah, everyone constantly feels sorry for her. That’s her whole thing. She makes people feel sorry for her and then she gets whatever she wants.”

She stopped suddenly, looked down at her hands. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this. She’s still my mom.”

“I know that sounds stupid but—” “It doesn’t sound stupid,” I said.

“She’s your mom. Of course you have complicated feelings, but Jordan, what she’s done to you isn’t okay. None of it is okay.”

Jordan was quiet for a moment. “Do you actually believe me?”

The question was so small, so fragile, like she was bracing herself for me to say no. “Of course I believe you.”

“Because no one ever does. I’ve tried telling people before and they always—” “I believe you,” I said again, firmer this time.

“Every word.” Zach moved from the chair to sit on Jordan’s other side.

She flinched at first but didn’t pull away. “I believe you too,” he said quietly.

“And I know what she’s capable of. She hurt me today. What she did to me—” He paused, his jaw tightening.

“You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.” Jordan looked at him with something like recognition, like she finally had someone who understood.

A Desperate Act and the Pursuit of Justice

“She used to tell me things when I was little,” Jordan continued, her voice steadier now.

“Things I believed because she was my mom and I didn’t know any better.” “Like what?” Zach asked.

Jordan was quiet for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

She tried again. “That I was supposed to be a boy. I ruined her life by being born wrong. She convinced me that my dad died because he was so disappointed in me. He didn’t want to live anymore.”

“Jordan—” I grabbed her hand.

“That’s not true. None of that is true.” “I know now.”

She squeezed my hand back. “But when you’re 6 years old and your mom tells you your dad killed himself because of you, you believe it. You believe it for a long time.”

Her voice cracked on the last word and she had to stop. She pressed her hands against her eyes and took a shaky breath.

“Take your time,” I said softly.

“You don’t have to tell us everything tonight.” “No, I want to. I need to.”

She dropped her hands and looked at me with wet eyes. “I’ve been holding this in for so long. I just need someone to finally know.”

The room went quiet. Zach reached over and put his hand on Jordan’s shoulder.

She looked surprised but she didn’t pull away. “You can let it all out,” Zach softly said.

“Cry, scream, talk to your heart’s content. We’re here for you.” “For once,” Jordan felt comforted so she continued.

“There was this one time, I was nine. I’d saved up my allowance and bought a dress from a thrift store—yellow with little flowers on it. I hid it in the back of my closet and only wore it when she wasn’t home.”

She paused. “She found it. Dragged me into the living room and made me watch while she cut it into pieces with scissors. She said if she ever caught me wearing girl clothes again, she’d make sure I regretted it.”

Jordan’s hands balled into fists. “I was nine. What kind of person does that to a 9-year-old over a dress?”

“I could end her,” I said.

The words came out before I could stop them. “I’m sorry. I know she’s your mom, but I could actually end her for doing that to you.”

Jordan stared at me. I don’t think anyone had ever been angry on her behalf before.

Zach put his hand on her shoulder. “And when I was 10, I painted my nails—just clear polish. You could barely even see it.”

Jordan’s voice was shaking now but it wasn’t sadness anymore. It was anger.

“She locked me outside in November. All night. I was in my pajamas and I thought I was going to die. And the next morning, she let me back in and acted like nothing happened. As if I really deserved to be punished like that.”

She stood up suddenly and started pacing. “14 years. 14 years of this and everyone just looked the other way: teachers, grandma and grandpa, everyone.”

She was shaking with rage now. “I spent my whole life thinking I just had to survive until I could leave. But you know what? I’m done being quiet. She’s always been the problem and everyone just let her get away with it.”

I wiped my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

I stood up and pulled her into a hug. She resisted for a second, still vibrating with anger, then collapsed into me.

We stood there for a long moment. I could feel her shaking against me.

All that rage slowly draining out of her until there was nothing left but exhaustion. “You’re not going to send me back, are you?”

Her voice was muffled against my shoulder, small, scared. “Never.”

“Promise?” “I promise. You’re staying here with us for as long as you want.”

She held on tighter. “There’s something else,” Jordan said into my shoulder.

“Something you need to know about your baby.” I pulled back.

“What about him?” “When you announced you were having a boy, she went quiet. You probably noticed. Everyone else was celebrating, but she just sat there staring at you.”

I nodded. I remembered.

“That night, she came into my room. She wasn’t angry. That was the scary part. She was always angry, but this time she was calm, almost happy.”

Jordan’s jaw tightened. “She said, ‘That’s my second chance. That baby is going to fix everything.'”

“What does that mean?” Zach jolted up at that.

“She’s been planning this for months. She has a nursery set up in the spare room: blue walls, a crib, clothes, toys, everything.”