When I pulled into the gas station, I saw my daughter asleep inside a public transit van. Her young son was curled up in the back seat. I gently tapped on the window glass. Where is the apartment I paid for? Where’s the baby girl you just gave birth to? Don’t you have two children?
She looked at me with hollow eyes and whispered, “My husband and my mother-in-law changed the locks on the apartment. They told me I have no rights over my own daughter. They threw us out on the street and kept my baby.”
I opened the van door. “Get out. Come with me,” I said.
She asked, “Where to?”
And I answered, to make them pay for what they did. And I know exactly how to do it.
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My name is Elijah Stovall, and I am 67 years old. People say that at my age I should be sitting on my front porch waiting for my grandkids to come play. But the reality is that on that night, I was sitting on a bench by the gas station, holding a bag of blood pressure medication, feeling like my life was getting smaller every day.
For a long time, my mind had been spinning around just one name: Maya Stovall, my only daughter.
It had been nearly five years since I had seen her face. The last time we met, I exploded with anger because she insisted on marrying Marcus Thorne. I remember it perfectly. I shouted at her, “If you marry him, don’t ever call me father again.”
Those words came out of my mouth without thinking. They were hot, stupid words. Since then, Maya left. My wife passed away shortly after. I sold the house in the country and moved to the city, where I rented a small place on the outskirts.
A few years ago, Maya managed to contact me. By then, she was married and pregnant, and Marcus was having trouble coming up with the down payment for their condo. Even though my heart still ached, I couldn’t bear to hear my daughter’s trembling voice on the phone. I took out my retirement savings, the money from my late wife’s inheritance, and transferred it all to Marcus’ account so they would have a place to live.
After that, Maya became hard to reach, as if she had deliberately cut off communication with me. But I managed to hear that she had given birth again.
That night, after an appointment at the health center, I got off the bus at a small gas station. The walk to my rented house was still long. I usually rested for a while at the nearby stand, bought a bottle of water, and waited until the pain in my legs subsided.
The gas station was empty, lit by flickering yellowish lights. In a corner of the parking lot, several transit vans were parked half-hazardly. My eyes were already tired, but my gaze stopped on a dark green van in the corner. The interior light was dim.
In the seat next to the window, a young woman was sleeping sitting up. Her head was tilted against the glass. Her hair was a mess, and a worn-out jacket was wrapped around her body. In the back seat, there was a young boy, maybe seven years old, sleeping curled up.
My chest tightened immediately. The way that woman hugged her tattered bag was too tight, like someone who is afraid of losing the only thing they have left. I stood up. My old legs protested, but I kept walking toward her.
The closer I got, the clearer her face became: her nose, the line of her eyebrows, the shape of her chin. My heart was struck as if by lightning.
It was Maya.
I stopped by the van window. My breathing quickened. The gas station lights reflected off the dirty glass, but I was sure it was my daughter—the girl I once cursed with words I now wish I could cut out myself.
Her body was thin. The cheeks that used to be full were now sunken. Her lips were chapped, and the jacket was far too thin for the cold. I swallowed hard. My throat was dry. I raised my hand and gently tapped on the glass.
The woman blinked. Her eyes opened slowly, empty for a few seconds. Then they focused on me. In the back seat, the boy stirred, murmuring quietly.
I saw those eyes clearly—the same eyes that looked at me with anger when I forbade her to marry. “Maya,” my voice came out soft and raspy.
The woman squinted as if she couldn’t believe it. “Pops.” Her voice broke between sleep and reality.
I opened the van door, which wasn’t locked. The smell of gasoline and sweat hit me. Up close, her condition was even worse. And the boy in the back seat had a face just like Maya’s, just like mine. He was surely my grandson.
I sat on the edge of the seat. Many questions pounded in my head, but one sentence came out first. Where is the condo I paid for? Where is the baby you just had? Don’t you have two kids?
Maya froze. Her eyes filled with tears, but they were like water in a broken glass. The boy woke up, looked at me for a moment, then lowered his head and hugged his knees. His gaze was empty, his movements slow, as if he were afraid of loud noises.
“Maya,” I repeated more softly. “Answer me, baby girl.”
She took a short breath, her lips trembling. “My husband Marcus, and my mother-in-law, Mrs. Beatatrice.” Her voice broke. “They changed the locks on the condo. They told me I have no right to my own daughter. They kicked me and Malik out. They’re holding my baby inside. I can’t get back in, Pops.”
Those names pounded in my head. Marcus Thorne. Beatatrice Thorne. The people I once only sensed would hurt my daughter had now actually done it.
“How long have you been here?” I asked in a low voice.
“Several weeks,” she said, looking down. “And we sleep here. The man is very kind. Mr. Clarence lets us spend the night here. And during the day, I help clean up, but it’s not enough to pay rent. I don’t know where to go.”
I wanted to ask why she didn’t look for me, but the words got stuck. How could I blame a daughter who was sitting shivering inside a van with a special-needs child behind her, while her baby was being held by a greedy husband and mother-in-law?
I looked at Malik. “What’s wrong with him?”
Maya stroked her son’s head. “Malik has developmental delays, Pops. The doctor says he needs therapy. He’s scared of loud noises. He’s a special boy. That’s why at their house they were ashamed of him.”
That last sentence made my chest burn. They were ashamed to have a grandson like Malik, while they themselves were the dirty ones.
Something inside me hardened. I opened the van door wider. “Get out,” I said with a firm voice, just like before. “Come with me.”
Maya looked at me confused and afraid. “Where, Pops?”
I looked her straight in the eyes. For the first time in years, I felt clear. “To make them pay,” I replied in a low but sharp voice. “And I know exactly how to do it.”
That night, my rented house felt small. Maya was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. Malik was sleeping on a thin mattress, hugging a worn-out doll from the van. I offered her a sweet tea.
“Drink first,” I told her. “Then tell me. I want to hear everything from the beginning.”
Maya held the glass with both hands. “Since college, Pops,” she said softly. “I met Marcus on campus. He was kind, polite, seemed stable. He always drove me around. He bought me food. I thought, well, this is my destiny.”
“Besides, back then we were fighting a lot about my future. I remember it well. Marcus Thorne had come to the house, brought bread, smiled a lot, but his eyes were always scanning the contents of the room. When you said you didn’t like him, I fought back. Our fight ended with your most regrettable sentence. If I married him, you said I shouldn’t consider you my father.”
“When I got married, Pops didn’t come.” Maya’s voice trembled. “Only Mama came as a representative, sitting uncomfortably in front of the judge among Marcus’ loud family. It hurt. I promised myself I would prove I could live without Pops, that I could be happy with Marcus.”
She took a breath. “At the beginning of the marriage, everything was sweet. Marcus was attentive. Mrs. Beatatrice seemed caring. But when I got pregnant with Malik, everything started to change. Marcus would come home late often, get angry easily. Mrs. Beatatrice started commenting, ‘Don’t go to your father’s house so often, or you’ll get used to asking for things,’ even though I never asked for anything.”
“When Malik was born and the doctor said he had developmental delays, everything got worse,” she continued. “Mrs. Beatatrice blamed me whenever Malik had tantrums. They made me lock myself in the room so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. They were ashamed to have a grandson different from everyone else. In front of Malik, they would say, ‘A child like this ruins your life.’”
I looked at Malik, who was sleeping restlessly. His small body trembled gently. I felt like dragging Marcus and Beatatrice out that very night.
“Then Marcus had trouble paying the down payment for the condo,” Maya said. “He was stressed, angry all the time. I could only think of one person. Pops. That’s why I called you in secret, even though you were still angry. You still sent the money.”
“That money was what allowed us to get into the condo.”
I nodded. My retirement savings and the rest of Maya’s mother’s inheritance disappeared that same day.
“After that,” she continued, “the condo was put in Marcus’ name. I only said the money was from Pops. They replied, ‘The one who works is Marcus.’ I was afraid to fight. I stayed quiet.”
“Since then, Marcus forbade me from contacting you anymore. He blocked your number, deleted your messages. Little by little, I felt like I really didn’t deserve to be your daughter.”
“A few months ago, before they threw me out, they took my phone. They said I played with it too much when I was just looking at pictures of you. All the documents are also held by Mrs. Beatatrice. My ID, birth certificates, marriage certificate, Malik’s records, health insurance cards. She said it was to handle the insurance. So I have nothing.”
I held back my anger.
“And the day they kicked me out,” Maya said, her voice thin. “Aaliyah was only a few weeks old. Pops, I was exhausted, crying a lot. One night, I put Aaliyah in her crib for a moment and said, ‘Baby girl, Mama is tired.’ Marcus saw it.”
“The next day, he said I was crazy, that I wasn’t fit to be a mother. And he talked to Mrs. Beatatrice about how to get rid of me.”
“A few days later, they sent me to buy diapers and food with Malik. Aaliyah stayed at home. When I returned, they had already changed the locks. From inside, they told me to leave. The baby was staying with them.”
“If I made a scene, they threatened to call the police, saying I wanted to kidnap the child. The neighbors just watched from afar,” she breathed in a low voice. “The security guard came and said, ‘Don’t cause trouble. It’s a family matter.’ I sat in front of the door crying. Malik was hungry. By nightfall, they kicked us out of the hallway too. I only had a few bills in my wallet, my clothes. The documents, the phone—everything stayed inside.”
“Why didn’t you look for me?” I asked softly. The question I had saved finally came out.
Maya looked down. “I didn’t know your current address, Pops. The last I knew, you were still in the small town. When you said you were moving to the city, I was busy with my own life. I never asked where you lived.”
“I don’t know your number by heart. It was always just tapping your name on the phone. I don’t have a phone anymore. In my head, there was only Marcus’ voice: your father is only going to blame you.”
“I was afraid. I was ashamed. So I just walked with Malik. We slept in chapels, on gas station benches, sometimes in store doorways, until one night Mr. Clarence saw us and felt sorry for us. He said we could sleep in his van at night as long as I helped clean in the mornings.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Several times I thought about looking for you in the country, but I didn’t have money for the bus. Besides, I was afraid that if I got there, you would tell me I deserved it all.”
The pain spread through my chest. I reached out and took her hand firmly.
“Listen, Maya,” I said in a low but steady voice. “Your father made a huge mistake when I ran you off. But what Marcus and Mrs. Beatatrice did to you is much more cruel. You are not crazy. You are Malik and Aaliyah’s mother, and you are still my daughter.”
Maya looked at me, her eyes red. “But I caused you trouble. You’re old now.”
“Old?” I interrupted her. “If I have to suffer for you and for my grandkids, that is not a burden. It is my duty.”
“They think they can throw you away just like that. They think you have no one.” I took a deep breath. The names Marcus and Beatatrice spun in my head like thorns.
“Starting tonight, you are no longer alone,” I continued. “The condo, your baby, the life they snatched from you—we are going to get it all back one by one. Let them also know what it feels like to lose.”
In Maya’s eyes, behind the exhaustion accumulated over years, I saw something starting to appear slowly. It was no longer despair, but a small hope that stubbornly wanted to live.
The next morning, the sun had barely come up, but my head was already full of plans. Maya was sleeping next to Malik. Her face looked more peaceful than the night before, but the circles under her eyes were dark. I got up slowly and covered them with a blanket.
In the small kitchen, I put water on to boil and made tea while I thought about one thing: the down payment for the condo. That money was no small amount. It was the savings of half a lifetime for me and my late wife. When I transferred it to Marcus’ account, I kept all the proof.
If I could prove that, then that condo didn’t belong only to Marcus.
I pulled up a chair, climbed up slowly, and reached for a brown cardboard box on top of the old wardrobe—a box I had almost never opened since my wife died. Inside was a blue plastic folder, a bit damp with the smell of old paper.
I brought it to the table, sat down, and opened it one by one. A worn savings book. Maya’s old birth certificate. Letters from my late wife from when she still worked in administrative projects.
And among all that, I found what I was looking for: photocopies of bank transfer receipts, several sheets with my handwriting in the margin. For the down payment of Maya’s condo, it said in slanted, neat writing. There was a date, an amount, and an account number in Marcus Thorne’s name.
Under the last receipt was a yellowed sheet of paper: a handwritten letter from my wife.
“Elijah, if one day this money is used for anything other than for Maya and her children, do not stay silent. You have a right to fight for it.”
I stayed silent for a long time. It was as if she were speaking directly to me from beyond. Little by little, I arranged those documents in a folder. My hands were shaking, not from age, but from anger mixed with determination.
Marcus thinks he’s the smartest one. He thinks because I’m old and alone, I’ll just close my eyes. He’s wrong.
There was a noise on the floor. Maya came out of the room with messy hair and half-open eyes. “Pops, didn’t you sleep?”
“I’ve slept enough,” I replied. “Come look at this for a moment.”
She approached. I handed her the transfer receipts and the letter. Maya read them. Her lips were trembling.
“This is Mama’s handwriting,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “You never wanted to listen when I told you something about Marcus didn’t sit right with me. Now look for yourself. That condo stands on your mother’s sweat and mine. They think they can just throw you out.”
Maya bit her lip. “Pops. But the condo is in Marcus’s name. He has the documents. The law looks at the papers.”
“That’s why we have to use papers, too,” I interrupted. “Not just cry in a transit van.”
Malik woke up, rubbed his eyes, crawled to Maya’s lap, and looked at the blue folder on the table without understanding. Then he leaned his head on his mother’s shoulder. I stroked his head.
“Malik wants some bread.”
He nodded slightly. This boy might have trouble speaking, but he understands when he is treated with love.
While I prepared a simple breakfast, my mind was already on the next step. I can’t walk this path alone. I need someone who understands the law. The name that popped into my head was Xavier.
Xavier was a co-worker of mine back on the construction projects. Later, he studied law at night and became a lawyer. When my wife got sick, Xavier often came to help with the hospital paperwork. In recent years, we hadn’t contacted each other much, but I still had his number saved.
After breakfast, I took my old phone. I searched for Xavier’s number in a little notebook, not in the contacts. These old fingers pressed the numbers carefully. It rang several times. Then a deep familiar voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Xavier. It’s Elijah. Elijah Stovall, the one who worked with you on the sites.”
There was silence for a moment. Then the voice on the other end sounded surprised but happy. “Mr. Stovall, Lord have mercy. It’s been so long. Where are you now?”
“In the city,” I replied briefly. “Xavier, I need help. It’s not for me. It’s for Maya.”
I told him the main points—not all the details, but enough for Xavier to keep a long silence. On the other end, I could hear a heavy sigh.
“This is too much, Mr. Stovall,” he finally said. “Legally, it’s complicated, especially since the documents are in their hands. But it doesn’t mean nothing can be done. There is a path. It just takes time, effort, and yes, some money.”
“I’ll worry about the money,” I said quickly. “The important thing is that you tell me first. Is there a chance Maya can get custody of her children? And if possible, that they don’t get to keep that condo entirely?”
“There’s a chance,” he replied, “especially if you have proof of the transfer and witnesses, and if it can be shown that there was negligence and psychological abuse. But you have to be prepared. They won’t stay quiet. They could counterattack, smear Maya, use the mental health issue, all sorts of things.”
I looked at Maya, who was helping Malik eat bread. “We’ve been quiet for too long, Xavier. You see the result. If we have to fight now, then let’s do it once and for all.”
On the other side of the phone, Xavier laughed briefly with bitterness. “All right, Mr. Stovall. I’ll stop by your house this afternoon. We’ll look at all the documents. We’ll prepare the first step.”
After hanging up, Maya came over. “Pops, who is Xavier?”
“A lawyer,” I replied, “a friend of mine from the construction days. He’s going to help us.”
Maya looked increasingly nervous. “If Marcus finds out we brought a lawyer, he could get very angry, Pops. He could report me back. Say I’m crazy. Say I’m not fit to be a mother. I’m afraid Malik and Aaliyah will be taken by the government or something.”
I looked at her intently. “How long do you want to sleep in a van, Maya? Do you want Malik to grow up hearing that he is a burden and a shame? If we stay quiet, Marcus and Mrs. Beatatrice are going to get bolder. They’ve been doing whatever they want for far too long.”
Maya stayed silent, tears welled up in her eyes. I sat in front of them, taking Maya’s hand and stroking Malik’s head at the same time.
“Listen well. This is not just about the condo. It’s about dignity for your children. They’ve already taken your home, your baby, your husband, your sanity. If we leave it like this, they’ll want to take Malik, too. At this point, there are only two options: we lose everything, or we fight until they are the ones on their knees.”
Maya looked at me for a long time. In her eyes, I saw guilt, fear, but also something else. Anger. An anger that she had kept inside all this time, directed at herself. Now, little by little, that anger was starting to shift toward those who deserved to receive it.
“I don’t want Malik to be under their control,” her voice was low but firm. “I don’t want Aaliyah to grow up in that same house.”
Then I said, “You stand by Pops. No matter what happens, we face it together.”
That afternoon, while we waited for Xavier to arrive, I organized the blue folder, preparing everything in my head. The first step was already clear: go see Marcus and Mrs. Beatatrice. Show them they aren’t dealing with an old father who just gives up.
The night at the gas station was over. Now it was their turn to look for a place to sleep in some dark corner with the fear of losing—just as they made Maya and Malik feel.
In the afternoon, Xavier arrived wearing a wrinkled shirt and carrying a briefcase, but his face was firm. He was in his mid-40s, with hair starting to gray at the temples. He shook my hand for a long time.
“Mr. Stovall, you look the same.”
“Huh?” I said, trying to smile. “The only thing that changed is the wrinkles.”
We laughed for a moment. Then the atmosphere turned serious again.
On the table, I opened the blue folder. Xavier reviewed the transfer receipts and my wife’s handwritten letter, all with care. From time to time, he nodded, his eyebrows furrowing.
“This is strong, Mr. Stovall,” he said. “It’s not direct proof of ownership, but it’s enough to show there was a large contribution on your part. Adding the fact that they kicked Maya out and are withholding the child, this can be the basis for a civil and custody lawsuit.”
Maya was sitting stiffly on the edge of her chair. Her hands gripped the edge of her skirt. “But they have all the documents, sir,” she said in a low voice. “If they say I’m crazy…”
Xavier looked at her. “Mrs. Stovall, has a psychiatrist ever examined you?”
“They only told me I had postpartum depression,” Maya replied. “They gave me tranquilizers. I’m not crazy.”
“Exactly that,” Xavier said. “Postpartum depression is not a reason to take a baby away, but they can flip everything. That’s why we need to have our own story, not just defend ourselves.”
I intervened. “Xavier, what’s the first step?”
“Tomorrow, we go to their condo,” Xavier replied without hesitation. “I want to see directly how they talk, what their attitude is. We take this folder. We present ourselves well first. If they get difficult, then we play hard through the law.”
Maya looked pale. “The condo… I’m not ready yet to see Aaliyah and not be able to do anything, sir.”
I took her hand. “That’s exactly why we’re going. You’re not alone anymore.”
The next day, we were standing in front of the condo building I had only seen in pictures before. A high-rise building with an air-conditioned lobby, shiny floors, and guards in elegant uniforms. My old legs protested as I climbed the few stairs, but I forced them.
Maya held Malik by the hand. He was restless, covering his ears because of the noise.
Xavier checked in at the front desk. “We want to go to the unit in Marcus Thorne’s name,” he said. “I am Xavier Vance, the attorney. This is the father of his wife, and his wife herself.”
The receptionist called up, her expression changed several times. Then she nodded awkwardly. “Please wait. Mr. Thorne will be down.”
I snorted softly. “He’s making us wait here,” I whispered to Maya.
A few minutes later, Marcus appeared from the elevator—long-sleeved shirt, dress pants, gelled hair, smelling of cologne. On the outside, he still looked like the ideal son-in-law. His eyes went straight to Maya and Malik.
For a moment, he froze. Then his face hardened. “Why are you bringing old people here?” he said sharply. And that boy—his look toward Malik was like looking at trash—“Why don’t you find somewhere else to cause trouble?”
I took a step forward. “Let’s speak with respect, Marcus,” I said without emotion. “This is your son, not a stray cat.”
He looked me up and down. “Mr. Stovall, right? It’s been a long time. Sorry, but this is my home. You can’t just come here and make a scene.”
Xavier stepped forward and pulled out a business card. “Good morning, Mr. Thorne. I am Xavier Vance, attorney. We have come in good faith to talk about Maya and her children, including housing rights and custody.”
Marcus looked at the card for a moment, then smirked. “Lawyer? Man, that’s intense. I can call the lawyer, too, if I have to. But for what? My wife was the one who left and abandoned her daughter. Now she comes to do drama in the lobby.”
Maya was shaking. “They kicked me out,” she whispered. “They kicked me out.”
“What?” Marcus approached. “Who kicked you out? You couldn’t handle it on your own. You left. Taking Malik. You left the baby. Don’t flip the story in front of your father.”
I felt the blood rushing to my head. “Don’t lie, Marcus,” I said loudly. Several people in the lobby began to turn around. “Maya was kicked out. You changed the locks. You’re withholding the baby. You kept all the documents.”
Marcus raised his voice. “Listen to yourself. No, Mr. Stovall. She’s hallucinating. The depression is getting worse. We’ve already consulted the doctor for the baby’s safety. We had to separate them temporarily.”
“You want the baby in the care of someone who talks to herself and cries for no reason?”
His words were like knives. Maya was holding her head. Malik clung to her legs, starting to whine from the shouting.
Xavier held my arm before I could get too close. “Mr. Thorne,” he said more calmly, “if you are sure of your version, there is no problem if we take this matter to court, right? We have proof of the transfer of the condo down payment from Mr. Stovall to your account. We also have witnesses who can speak about the treatment of you and your mother toward Maya.”
Marcus’ face tensed for a second, then quickly returned to normal. “Go ahead. The condo down payment was a gift. There is no written contract. If you want to discuss it in court, I’m happy for the whole world to know my wife isn’t well. I have doctor’s notes.”
The elevator chime sounded again. A woman with elegantly pinned hair and an expensive bag stepped out. Beatatrice Thorne. She looked at us with raised eyebrows.
“What is this commotion?” she asked. Then her eyes found Maya and Malik. Her lips curled, not in a smile, but in a sneer.
“Ah. You got tired of wandering around carrying that special boy. Now you come to complain.”
I almost lunged at her. Xavier squeezed my arm harder.
“Mrs. Thorne, be careful what you say,” Xavier said, still polite. “Your words can also serve as evidence.”
Beatatrice laughed briefly. “Go ahead. I’m not afraid. I just don’t want my precious granddaughter Aaliyah living with a mother who isn’t well, and a grandfather who likes to look for fights. Look at yourselves. Are you worthy of living here?”
The guard approached with a confused face. “Excuse me. Don’t cause a scene in the lobby. If you have family matters, please take them inside.”
Marcus took advantage of the situation. “See? This is bothering the other residents. Mr. Stovall—or Maya—if you want to talk, do it through the lawyer. But I’m telling you now, I am not handing Aaliyah over to someone who can’t even take care of herself.”
He took Beatatrice’s arm. “Let’s go, Mama. Let’s not waste time.”
The two of them turned and walked toward the elevator without looking back once at Maya, even though Maya called out quietly, “Aaliyah. I just want to see her.”
The elevator closed. The small ding of the bell felt like a slap.
Not long after, two police officers entered the lobby, called by the security staff Marcus had contacted earlier. They saw our group, then heard the partial explanation from the receptionist that a family was fighting over a spousal matter. In the end, they just said, “Folks, if you have domestic issues, resolve them properly. Don’t make a scene here. You’re going to disturb people.”
Xavier tried to explain, but their looks were already tilted toward the side with the clean shirts and the fixed address.
When we left the lobby, Maya was crying silently. Malik kept hitting his head, upset by the shouting and the pressure from before. I carried that boy as best as I could. I hugged him tight.
On the way to the wing stop, my knees were weak. But inside my head, one thing became clearer: they are not just mean. They also have more power, status, documents, and pretty words in front of others.
“Pops,” Maya sobbed, “and we lost.”
I shook my head slowly. My breathing was still heavy. “Not yet,” I said. “That was just the first round. They think we can only come and cry in the lobby. Have they not seen your father when he really gets angry?”
All the way back from the condo, my head was throbbing. Marcus and Beatatrice’s words kept spinning around: mother who isn’t well, special boy, worthy of living here. But behind the pain was something stronger—a refusal to give up.
At home, Xavier took a long breath. “Mr. Stovall, I’m sorry. I already figured they would play it like that,” he said. “That’s why we need to gather evidence and witnesses. Without that in court, they’re going to look more presentable.”
“What do we need?” I asked.
“First, people who can tell about the treatment toward Maya and the children,” he replied. “Second, proof that they abused Maya’s situation. Third, maybe there are financial records that show Marcus used money that should have been for the children.”
Maya was sitting quietly with swollen eyes. “Who is going to defend me?” she whispered. “The neighbors at the condo believe them.”
“Not everyone,” Xavier intervened. “There is always one or two people who see more clearly. We start with the place where Maya gave birth. There are surely nurses or staff there who know what Marcus and Mrs. Beatatrice’s attitude was like.”
I nodded. That made sense. “Then tomorrow we go to the clinic,” I said.
The next day, the three of us went to the maternity clinic where Aaliyah was born. The building wasn’t large, but it was full of people. At the reception, Maya introduced herself.
“I gave birth here under the name Maya Stovall. Does the nurse who attended to me still work here?”
The woman at the desk looked up the data on the computer. Then she called out, “Tasha, come here for a moment.”
A young woman in a nurse’s uniform approached. Her face was kind. She was in her late 20s. Seeing Maya, her eyes went wide.
“Mrs. Stovall,” her voice sounded surprised. “My goodness. Really, how are you now?”
Maya tried to smile. “Do you remember me, Tasha?”
“Of course I do,” she replied. “I was on duty the night you gave birth. But now—how?”
Tasha looked her up and down. Then she looked at Xavier and me.
“We want to ask a favor,” I said directly. “Can we talk in a quieter place?”
We sat on a long bench near a small garden behind the clinic. Tasha listened as Maya told her what happened after leaving the clinic. When she got to being kicked out of the condo, Tasha’s face changed to one of anger.
“So it’s true they kicked you out, ma’am,” she said. “I never had a good feeling about your husband from the start. Remember? That night he got angry at the billing office just because of the difference in room costs. He said, ‘Why not the regular room? Anyway, my wife is just a housewife,’ and that was while you were suffering in pain.”
I was shocked. I nodded slightly. “Do you remember anything else?”
“When we suggested taking Malik to a child development specialist,” Tasha continued, “Mrs. Beatatrice complained. She said, ‘If the neighbors find out my grandson has a problem, what a shame.’ She said it out loud in the hallway. My co-workers and I looked at each other.”
Xavier spoke in a low voice. “Miss Tasha, would you be willing to testify as a witness or at least make a written statement about what you saw and heard?”
Tasha looked hesitant for a moment. “I’m afraid, sir, that the clinic might have problems later.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Xavier said. “It’s not necessary to mention the clinic’s name at first. This is about children taken from their mother. If no one dares to speak, people like them will keep winning.”
Tasha looked at Maya, who had her head down. “Ma’am, that night you gave birth, you were crying a lot. Not just from the pain, but because you felt alone. I couldn’t stand to see you like that. If I stay silent now, I feel like I’m also a bad person,” she said in a low voice.
“All right, sir. I’m going to help. I’ll make the statement. If necessary, I’ll go to court.”
I almost cried hearing that. “Thank you, daughter,” I said. “You don’t know how big this is for us.”
In the afternoon, we sat again at my kitchen table. Xavier was putting together the plan.
“Besides Tasha, we need a witness from where Mr. Stovall lives,” he said. “Someone who can say that Malik is well cared for, that he is not abandoned.”
“Mr. Halloway, the block leader here,” I said. “He sees me taking care of Malik often.”
“Good,” Xavier replied. “We’ll talk to him later. And about the money—I have a contact at Marcus’s former company. He says the company had provided special support for therapy for children with special needs. I want to verify if that money was actually used for Malik or where it went.”
Maya looked up. “The company gave support? They never told me anything.”
Xavier and I looked at each other.
“If it’s true that money wasn’t used as it should have been,” Xavier said in a low voice, “that could be a very strong point. It means Marcus not only abandoned him, but also took advantage of Malik’s situation for his personal gain.”
Maya held her head. “So he wasn’t just mean to me, but to his own son.”
“Someone who sees his son as a burden won’t hesitate to use him as an excuse to get money,” I said briefly. “Don’t be surprised.”
We stayed silent for a moment. In the middle of the silence, I once again took out my late wife’s handwritten letter. I read it aloud in front of them.
“Elijah, if one day this money is used for anything other than for Maya and her children, do not stay silent. You have a right to fight for it.”
My own voice sounded shaky. “Your mother always knew the world isn’t fair,” I told Maya. “She left me this responsibility. Before, I failed to protect you from a bad decision. Now I don’t want to fail twice.”
Maya looked at both of us alternately. “What if they attack me later with the postpartum depression argument?” she asked softly. “If the judge believes them, I could lose Aaliyah and Malik completely.”
“That’s why you have to prove that you want and can get proper treatment,” Xavier said. “Tasha mentioned there’s a free counseling program at the health center. We’ll take it. Not because you’re crazy, you see, but so that when the judges ask, we can answer clearly.”
I nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to the health center. We’ll ask for a referral. We’ll follow the sessions they recommend. We’ll use every legal means.”
Maya took a long breath like someone preparing to dive into cold water. “All this time, I always ran away,” she said in a low voice. “I ran from Pops. I ran from problems. It turns out that no matter how far I run, the pain stays attached. If I have to face them in court now, then let it be once and for all.”
I looked at her intently. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, firmer this time. “I don’t want Malik to realize later when he grows up that his mother just stayed quiet while they humiliated him. I don’t want Aaliyah to grow up without knowing that her mother fought.”
At that moment, I saw Maya not as the stubborn girl who left me for the wrong man, but as a wounded mother who wanted to stand up. That was the difference.
Xavier slowly closed the blue folder. “Good,” he said. “Then from today on, we don’t just defend—we counterattack cleanly. Let them who like to play dirty eventually fall by their own filth.”
Several weeks after the meeting with Tasha, our lives felt pulled in two directions. On one hand, little by little, we were gathering strength. On the other, Marcus and Beatatrice started to strike back.
Every Tuesday, I took Maya to the health center for counseling. The doctor there—a middle-aged and calm woman—always spoke gently to Maya.
“Postpartum depression is not a shame,” she told her. “You need rest and support, not punishment.”
She neatly wrote out the record of therapy. We would use it later.
Tasha sent her written statement, signed in front of Xavier, clearly mentioning how Marcus got angry about the cost and how Mrs. Beatatrice insulted Malik. I kept that document in the blue folder like it was gold.
We also went to see Mr. Halloway in the living room of his small house. He listened to our story while nodding from time to time.
“I see Mr. Stovall here often taking care of Malik,” he said. “The boy is different, but I never saw him being hit or left hungry. If the mother has depression, well, it’s normal after what she went through. But in my view, the two of them love the boy very much. If you need me, I’ll testify.”
There was some hope growing. But it turns out that when we started to stand up, the enemy didn’t stay still.
One afternoon, I was hanging laundry in front of the house. Maya was inside feeding Malik. Suddenly, a white car stopped at the entrance of the alley. Two people got out: a young man with a thick folder, and a woman wearing a vest that said social services—CPS—with two police officers standing behind them, their expressions neutral.
“Is this the home of Elijah Stovall?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” I replied. My heart already felt bad. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re from social services,” she said. “We received a report that there is a child with special needs who is allegedly not being well cared for. We need to verify the child’s condition and the environment.”
I immediately understood where that report came from. My teeth gritted. “Are you referring to Malik?” I asked. “Fine. Come in.”
They entered. Maya was frightened to see that group. Malik immediately clung to his mother, covering his ears. Our housing was small but clean. There was nothing they could use as an excuse regarding dirt or smell.
The woman looked around, noting something on a form. “Where is the boy, sir?” she asked.
I called Malik in a low voice. “Come here, son. They just want to see you.”
Malik peeked from behind Maya with a tense face. When the man approached, Malik started shaking his head, murmuring nonsense, then hitting his ears. That was a sign he was stressed.
“Look, ma’am,” the man said in a low voice to his companion, but loud enough for us to hear, “there are signs of disorder. Cramped space. Mother with depression. Elderly grandfather.”
Maya reacted immediately. “I’m in therapy, sir,” she said hurriedly. “I take my medications regularly. I love my son very much. Malik is just afraid of new people. That’s all.”
The police officers were just standing at the door with their hands behind their backs as if waiting for orders.
“Sir,” the woman from social services said, trying to sound kind, “we might need to take Malik for a few days for observation just to make sure there is no negligence.”
I took a step forward. “You can’t.” My voice rose. “This boy is not fit to be separated from his mother. If you take him away suddenly, he could get even more stressed. If you want to observe, observe here.”
“Procedure, sir,” she said. “We aren’t accusing you of anything, but there is a serious report. They say his mother is often hysterical, that she talks to herself, that she even once wanted to hurt the baby. We have to follow up.”
I was almost sure the name of the complainant in that folder was Marcus Thorne or Beatatrice Thorne before I could explode.
Another voice entered. “What is all this fuss?”
Mr. Halloway appeared at the door, his shirt wrinkled and his breathing a bit heavy. “I’m the block leader here. If it’s something about my neighbors, I need to know.”
The woman from social services explained briefly. Mr. Halloway listened and then laughed briefly.
“Negligence,” he said. “I see Mr. Stovall taking care of his grandson almost every day. If the boy were hungry or mistreated, I would have reported it myself a long time ago. If the mother has depression, well, it’s normal after what she went through, but I can guarantee the boy is cared for here.”
He approached Malik, gently stroking his head. “Malik, son, you want to stay here with Mama and Grandpa, right?”
Malik didn’t answer, but he hugged Maya’s waist tighter. That was enough.
The woman from social services looked a bit shaken. She sighed. “All right, sir,” she finally said. “For now, Malik stays here, but we’re going to register him, and maybe there will be another visit. Please cooperate.”
They left. The white car drove away at the end of the alley.
The atmosphere of the house went silent. Maya slumped down.
“Pops. They almost took Malik.” Her voice broke. “I can’t take this.”
I sat beside her. “That’s why you see now they use every means. Slander, reports, whatever. They want to build the story that you are a danger to your children. If we stay quiet, Marcus and Mrs. Beatatrice will get bolder.”
That night, after Malik fell asleep, I sat alone in the kitchen counting money. What was left in the savings book was little. A few days ago, I sold my wedding ring and my only gold watch. That money went toward paying the electricity, buying medicine, bus fare to the health center, and something for Xavier. I hadn’t paid this month’s rent in full either. I could feel our time was tight—not just in court, but in the wallet.
Outside, the murmurs of the neighbors began to be heard. Some approached Mr. Halloway to ask, “Is it true?” He and Maya want to take a child away from a rich family because of the condo. Some defended us. Some just liked the gossip.
The next day, Xavier arrived with news that wasn’t good.
“Marcus has already filed a counterclaim,” he said. “He is asking for full custody of Aaliyah and also asking the court to consider limiting Maya’s rights over Malik if it’s proven she is unstable. He attached a letter from the doctor that mentions postpartum emotional disorder. He’s also using the social services report.”
Maya lifted her face. “So he also wants to take Malik away.”
“They won’t necessarily approve it,” Xavier said quickly. “That’s just a request, but it’s clear they aren’t playing around.”
I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. We can’t keep being attacked like this. I growled. We need something stronger than just testimonies.
We decided that night to gather all the witnesses and evidence more orderly. Tasha was ready to come whenever needed. Mr. Halloway already had his statement ready. Xavier’s contact at Marcus’ former company gave news over the phone: there really were support funds for Marcus’ son’s therapy, but there is no proof they were used for therapy. Everything just appears as personal expenses.
“There is one more thing that occurred to me,” Mr. Halloway said suddenly.
At that moment, we were sitting on the porch of my house. Night was beginning to fall.
“When they kicked Maya out of the condo, there was a scene in the hallway right there. There’s someone who works as a guard in that building. He said that day the security camera recordings were reviewed by management. So on the building’s server, the recordings might still be there.”
I turned quickly. “Recordings?”
“Yes,” Mr. Halloway replied. “I don’t know if they still exist, but usually condos keep them for a long time for security.”
An image appeared in my head: Maya standing in front of the condo door crying, knocking, Marcus and Beatatrice inside—perhaps captured by the camera. If we could get that recording of the moment they took Aaliyah from her, of the moment they kicked Maya out, that would no longer be just a testimony.
I looked at Xavier. Our eyes shone the same way.
“Xavier,” I said, my voice low but clear, “if that recording still exists, that could flip everything.”
Xavier nodded. “Tomorrow we go there,” he said. “As long as they haven’t deleted it, that is our chance.”
For the first time after the social services visit, my chest felt a bit more relieved. They had already attacked us. They almost brought us down. Now maybe it was our turn to pull them into a place they couldn’t escape: the truth recorded on camera.
The next morning, Maya, Xavier, and I were standing once again in front of Marcus’ condo building. It felt like returning to the place where we were humiliated. But this time, we didn’t come to cry in the lobby.
At the front desk, Xavier spoke in a low but firm voice. “We want to meet with the building management,” he said, “related to a formal request for security camera recordings from some time ago.”
The employee looked at us for a moment, then called someone. After a few minutes, we were shown into the building manager’s office on the second floor. There, a man with glasses was waiting for us.
“I’m Anthony, the building manager,” he said. “Regarding the camera recordings, the time we normally keep them is one month. The incident you mention is past that, right?”
My heart sank. “So you’ve already deleted them?” I asked quickly.
“Not necessarily,” he replied. “For certain cases, we keep them longer on the central server because there was an internal audit. So it’s very likely they still exist in our main management office, but we only release recordings if there is an official request from the authorities.”
“Then we will request it through the court,” Xavier said. “But to build the case file, we need confirmation first. On the day Maya was kicked out of the condo, are there recordings of the hallway and lobby that are still saved?”
Anthony looked at his computer screen and typed something. Time passed slowly. Maya squeezed the edge of my shirt. My hands were cold.
After a few minutes, Anthony sighed. “According to the system, the file isn’t here,” he said. “But I see a record that on that day, the hallway and lobby recordings were backed up to the central server because there was an internal audit, so they are very likely still at our central management office.”
“Can you help us request a copy?” Xavier insisted.
Anthony hesitated. “I don’t have direct authority. That’s a matter for the central office. But I can send an internal request email saying the recording is needed for a judicial process. At least that way, when the judge officially requests it, we’ll be ready.”
That was enough for me. “But please, sir, this recording isn’t just an image to us. It is my daughter’s life.”
Anthony nodded. “I understand, sir. Coincidentally, one of our staff, Daryl, was the one on duty that night. He says he saw a moment of the recording when there was a scene in the hallway. He remembers it. I’ll send for him right now.”
A few minutes later, a guard in a neat uniform entered. “I’m Daryl, sir,” he said politely. “I remember that night. This lady,” he pointed at Maya, “was sitting in front of the door holding a small boy who was crying. Mr. Thorne and his mother were inside shouting at her to leave. I asked them to speak properly, but Mrs. Beatatrice said, ‘We leave her so she learns.’ The recording exists. I saw it for a moment.”
I almost choked on my own tears. The image of Maya in front of the door was no longer just imagination. There was someone else who had seen it.
“Young man, Daryl,” Xavier asked, “would you be willing to testify later?”
Daryl looked hesitant. “I work here, sir. I’m afraid there might be trouble.”
Anthony intervened. “If they call you officially from the court, you have to go, Daryl,” he said. “I, as the manager, will explain that you were just doing your job.”
Daryl nodded slowly. “Then I’m ready, sir.”
On the way back, Xavier explained, “The recording isn’t in our hands yet, but at least we know it exists. In the lawsuit file, I’m going to ask the court to order the condo management to hand over the recording. If the judge agrees, they have to obey.”
Maya looked out the window of the bus. Her face was a mix of emotions. “If they play that recording in the trial,” she said in a low voice, “everyone will see they kicked me out. Everyone will see I didn’t abandon Aaliyah.”
“Exactly that,” I replied. “All this time, the story was only Marcus’ version. Now it’s time for the world to hear our version.”
That night, after Malik fell asleep, Xavier and I sat at the table, the blue folder in the middle.
“Mr. Stovall, I have to speak to you honestly about the costs,” Xavier said carefully. “All this time, I’ve helped as much as I can. But to file a large civil lawsuit and a custody request, there are administrative costs, copies, transportation, and so on. I’m not going to charge you much, but the court has its own fees.”
“I expected that,” I said. “About how much?”
Xavier mentioned a figure. It wasn’t exaggeratedly large for someone with money, but for me—living in a small rented house with scarce savings—it was like a high cliff.
Maya lowered her head. “Pops, if it’s too much, maybe we should back off,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t want you to sell anything else for me. Let’s live like this. The important thing is that Malik and I are together.”
I looked at her intently. “Living like this is waiting for the day a letter arrives from the court saying, ‘You no longer have any rights over Aaliyah,’ waiting for Marcus to win from the shadows.”
Maya stayed silent. Her tears fell. I took a long breath.
“Xavier,” I said, “this rented house—what is its status?”
“You pay the rent annually to the landlord, right?” Xavier asked back.
I nodded. “Yes. There are still several months left.”
“If you are willing to move to a smaller, cheaper place, we could negotiate with the landlord to ask for a refund of part of the unused rent,” he said, “adding in selling some things that aren’t necessary. Maybe it will be enough for the initial costs. Later, if we win the lawsuit, we can settle the finances with the compensation from the condo.”
Maya protested immediately. “Pops, no. You’re old. Are you going to live in an even tighter place because of me?”
I smiled with bitterness. “My life has never really been comfortable, Maya. When I was young, I slept in construction camps while working on the sites. Now, if they tell me to move to a more cramped house, it’s nothing new.”
But I raised my hand, stopping her. “Listen. There are moments when parents must know when to stop sacrificing. That is true. But there are also moments when, if the father isn’t willing to sacrifice a bit of the comfort he has left, his daughter and his grandkids will be trampled. I choose the second.”
That night, I went to the house of the landlord, Mr. Henderson, accompanied by Mr. Halloway. We talked for a long time. I explained the situation without drama, just facts. Mr. Henderson stroked his beard, looking undecided.
“Aw, Mr. Stovall,” he said, “I’ve already used the rent money, too, but I understand your situation. I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you back half of the remaining months. Then I can rent this room out again.”
That was more than enough for me. I thanked him many times, almost bowing as I shook his hand.
A few days later, some people came to see our house. Some things I gave to the neighbors. Some I sold cheap. The old wardrobe where I kept the blue folder—I sold that, too. I moved the folder to a cloth bag I always carry.
On the day we moved to a smaller house in the next alley, Malik was confused. “House,” he said in a low voice, one of the few words he could pronounce.
“Of course. Still home,” I replied, stroking his head. “The house is smaller, but our heart is the same.”
With the money from the rent refund and from selling things, Xavier was finally able to file the large lawsuit. In that file were all the transfer proofs, my late wife’s letter, Tasha’s statement, Mr. Halloway’s statement, the therapy record from the health center, and the formal request for the court to order the delivery of the camera recordings and to subpoena witnesses from the condo.
“Once this file goes in,” Xavier said, standing in front of the family court holding the thick folder, “the path can no longer be reversed. We are officially challenging Marcus and Mrs. Beatatrice in a place where they can’t manipulate with pretty words.”
I looked at the court building. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was enough to make the stomach churn. In my hand, Malik held the edge of my shirt. Maya carried Aaliyah in her imagination. Although there was still nothing in her arms, Xavier asked, “Are you ready?”
Maya took a long breath. “If I back out now, everything Pops sacrificed would be in vain,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t want to run away anymore. This time, if they want to destroy me, let them see it directly. If I win, I’ll also see it directly.”
I nodded. “Good,” I said. “From today on, they aren’t the only ones with a story in front of the judge. We have one, too.”
Xavier entered first, handing over the file at the window. When the red stamp hit the paper, that small sound in my ears felt like a gong opening a new chapter—a chapter where we were no longer the people kicked out into the condo hallway, but the party demanding justice in the courtroom.
On the day of the first hearing, my knees felt not just weak, but hollow. The courtroom wasn’t large. A ceiling fan chirped softly. In front, the judge sat in a simple robe. Beside him, the clerk. To the left and right, wooden benches full of curious faces.
I sat behind Maya. Beside her was Xavier. On the other side was Marcus Thorne in his elegant suit, hair gelled. Beside him, Beatatrice Thorne in an expensive outfit. On the edge of their table, a heavyset lawyer with thick glasses was busy flipping through papers.
The judge opened the hearing with a neutral voice. “Case of minor custody in the name of Maya Stovall against Marcus Thorne, as well as a civil lawsuit related to real estate consisting of a condo unit.”
He said, “Plaintiff’s side.”
“Ready, your honor,” Xavier stood up.
“Defendant’s side.”
“Ready, your honor,” Marcus’ lawyer replied.
At the beginning, the judge allowed each lawyer to read the main points. Marcus’ lawyer stood first.
“Your honor,” his voice was loud, “my client is a responsible husband. His wife, Mrs. Stovall, experiences postpartum emotional disorder—often hysterical—even leaving the baby alone several times. For the safety of the minor, my client’s family took measures to separate them temporarily. However, Mrs. Stovall fled, taking the first child who has special needs without preparation, living in an inadequate manner. Now they come to claim the condo and the second daughter.”
The air in my chest felt heavy.
The lawyer held up a sheet of paper. “We attach a letter from the doctor mentioning the existence of emotional disorder, as well as the report from social services that already visited the home of Elijah Stovall, father of the plaintiff.”
The judge noted that.
From the plaintiff’s side, Xavier stood up. “Your honor, what has just been presented is only one side,” he said calmly. “We are going to prove that what they call separation from the baby was a snatching, that the plaintiff was kicked out of her home along with her first child who has special needs, and that the condo claimed as entirely the defendant’s property actually stands on money from the plaintiff’s parents.”
The judge nodded. “Good. Let’s start with the witnesses and written evidence of the defendant’s side.”
First, Marcus’ lawyer called the psychiatrist who had previously examined Maya. The doctor explained that Maya had come with complaints of excessive sadness, difficulty sleeping, and crying without reason.
“I diagnosed postpartum depression,” he said. “I gave her tranquilizers. I never said the patient was dangerous. She only needed support.”
The lawyer tried to press him. “But it could be that if not controlled, she would become a danger to the children. Right, doctor?”
The doctor sighed. “If the family supports her, no. If they instead judge and pressure her, it could get worse. But I never suggested separating the baby from her mother in a brusque manner.”
The judge noted that sentence.
Then the woman from social services testified. She told of her visit to my house, saw Malik restless, the house small. But when Xavier questioned her back—“Did you see signs of physical violence? Did the child look hungry or dirty?”—she replied, “No, the house was clean. The child seemed to be being cared for. We were only on alert because of the report we received.”
“Whose report was it?” Xavier asked.
“From the family of the child’s father,” she replied.
The judge looked toward Marcus. “Good,” he said. “Now, witnesses for the plaintiff.”
Xavier called Tasha first. Tasha looked nervous, but her voice was firm. “I am a nurse, and I accompanied Mrs. Stovall when she gave birth,” she said. “That night, Mr. Thorne got angry at the billing office because of the cost of the room. He said his wife didn’t deserve a good room.”
“His mother, Mrs. Beatatrice, said the first child was special and that she didn’t want the neighbors to know. She said it was a shame to have a grandson different from everyone else. In front of Malik, they would say, ‘A child like this ruins your life.’”
Marcus’ lawyer objected, saying that was only conversation. But the judge looked intently. “This still shows an attitude,” he said. “Continue.”
They called Mr. Halloway. Then he told how almost every day he saw Maya and me taking care of Malik. “The boy does have developmental delays, but I never saw him being hit or left hungry,” he said. “If the mother has depression, it’s normal after what she went through. But in my view, the two of them love the boy very much.”
Xavier then presented the transfer proofs. The yellowing receipts were read. The judge read the handwritten letter from my late wife. I almost cried. My own voice sounded shaky in my heart. Your mother always knew the world isn’t fair. She left me this responsibility.
Marcus’ lawyer tried to cut him off. “That is only a voluntary gift, your honor. There is no legal contract. If they want to discuss it in court—”
The judge raised his hand. “I’ve seen enough,” he said. His eyes went straight to Marcus. “It seems instead that the defendant was the one who took the baby without the mother’s permission, then forbade the mother from entering. That contradicts the initial story.”
Beatatrice Thorne finally couldn’t take it anymore.
“We only wanted the best for our granddaughter, Aaliyah!” she shouted. “That woman is weak. She cries too much. How can she care for a baby? If we hand her over, our lives are ruined. We are ashamed if the neighbors know our son has a special grandson and a daughter-in-law with depression.”
That sentence came out loud just like that. In the courtroom, which was in silence, everyone turned. Marcus pulled his mother’s arm too late.
The judge struck the gavel once. “Enough, ma’am. Your words are all recorded.”
In the back bench, I felt something that had hardened inside me all this time starting to break in the right direction. Xavier looked at me for a moment. His eyes said, Here it is.
After a brief recess, the judge returned and read the provisional resolution. His voice was calm, but every word was like a stone falling on Marcus’ side.
“The court considers that the plaintiff, Mrs. Stovall, indeed experienced postpartum depression. However, she has shown goodwill by undergoing treatment. No proof was found that she abandoned the minor.”
“On the contrary, there is convincing proof that the defendant and his mother snatched the baby and kicked the plaintiff out of the house along with the first child who has special needs.”
I squeezed the cloth bag tightly.
“Therefore,” the judge continued, “the court resolves that the provisional custody of the first child, Malik Stovall Thorne, remains with his mother, Maya Stovall, with the accompaniment of her grandfather, Elijah Stovall.”
“For the second daughter, Aaliyah, the court orders that within a maximum period of seven business days, the defendant deliver the minor to her mother, with visitation arrangements for the father at a later date.”
Maya covered her mouth. Tears fell in torrents. I hugged her by the shoulders.
“Furthermore,” the judge’s voice was heard again, “regarding the condo, the court considers that there was a significant contribution from the plaintiff’s parents. The ownership status will be divided according to the corresponding proportion, and the defendant is obligated to provide financial compensation to the plaintiff and her father. The details will be established in the written resolution.”
On the other side, Marcus was slumped over, his face empty. His lawyer was murmuring in panic. Beatatrice Thorne stared straight ahead as if she didn’t believe the world was no longer on her side.
The judge closed the hearing for that day. “The case is not yet completely over,” he said. “But the direction is already clear. The rights of minors must be the priority. Adults who treat children as a burden will receive the consequences.”
When we left the room, the hallway felt different. It was no longer the hallway of the condo where they kicked Maya out, but the place where we had just snatched a bit of justice.
Maya squeezed my hand tight. “Pops,” her voice trembled, “in seven days, Aaliyah comes back to me.”
I nodded, my throat tight. “Yes, daughter,” I said. “And this is just the beginning. After this, they are going to learn what it feels like to be afraid of losing.”
The seven days felt very long. In the rented house, Xavier was sitting on a plastic chair holding the photocopy of the resolution.
“Today, they have to deliver Aaliyah,” he said. “If not, we can report them again.”
Maya went back and forth. Malik was sitting on the mat looking at the door.
The sound of a motorcycle stopped in front of the alley. From the window, I saw Marcus get off a moped holding a small bundle. Beatatrice Thorne got out of an old taxi behind him. I opened the door.
We looked at one another.
“Here she is,” Marcus said, extending the baby.
According to the resolution, Maya stepped forward. Her hands shook as she received Aaliyah. As soon as the baby passed to her arms, Aaliyah stirred for a moment. Then she stayed quiet, crying.
“Forgive me, baby girl. Mama was late,” Maya whispered.
Malik approached, his hands hesitant.
Beatatrice crossed her arms. “We have complied with the court order,” she said sharply. “It doesn’t mean we agree.”
“We only need you to obey the law, ma’am,” Xavier replied. “From now on, if you want to see the child, it’s through the legal route. No more taking her in secret.”
Marcus looked inside the house. “Are you sure you want to raise these children in a place like this?” he said to Maya. “Can you live well with me?”
I intervened. “Well, for you—not for the children. Well, where no one says they are a shame. It’s small here, but no one throws them away.”
Marcus stayed silent. His face looked older. Beatatrice did, too.
“From now on, if you want to see the children, it’s through the legal route,” I said. “No more taking them in secret.”
Marcus clenched his fist, then turned around.
Beatatrice looked for a moment at Aaliyah. “If you can’t, don’t be proud,” she said. “This girl deserves the best.”
Maya lifted her head. “That’s why she can’t stay in your house anymore, ma’am,” she replied. “I am poor, but I don’t throw children away.”
Beatatrice didn’t answer. She followed Marcus. Their taxi disappeared at the end of the alley.
Several months later, our lives slowly took shape. Every morning, I cooked rice, boiled water. Maya breastfed Aaliyah while watching Malik build blocks. Twice a week, I took Malik to therapy. He was still afraid of loud noises, but he was starting to dare to look at people.
Sometimes he would point to his little sister and babble, “Baby, sister.”
The compensation money we used carefully—paying debts, buying a mattress, fixing the roof—the rest we kept in the children’s names. We weren’t rich, but we no longer slept in a van.
Maya kept going to counseling this time because she wanted to take care of herself.
One afternoon, we were sitting on the porch. The children were playing on the mat.
“Pops,” Maya said, “if you hadn’t passed by the gas station that night, maybe I’d still be in the van.”
I looked at her. “If I hadn’t said stupid things before, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten this far,” I replied. “But it’s over. The important thing is that we don’t repeat with Malik and Aaliyah what others did to you.”
Maya smiled slightly. “Before, I promised myself not to be a grumpy father like you,” she said. “Now I’m grateful you are grumpy. If you had stayed indifferent, maybe I’d be gone by now.”
We laughed.
News of Marcus and Beatatrice arrived little by little. After the resolution, Marcus sold the condo. The money went toward paying obligations and covering debts. He and Beatatrice moved to a small rented house on the outskirts of the city. Marcus was demoted at work, then resigned. Some say he now does odd jobs. Beatatrice rarely leaves the house. The extended family keeps their distance.
One day, without meaning to, we passed through their area. Maya and I were in a moped taxi. Malik was in front hugging the driver. Aaliyah was in Maya’s arms.
In an alley, I saw Marcus sitting in front of a small house, smoking with a lost look. Beside him, Beatatrice was in a plastic chair looking at the muddy street. Our eyes met for a moment. There were no shouts, just a few seconds.
I tapped the driver. “Keep going,” I said.
In my heart, there was a small part that wanted to get off and say, “Now it’s your turn.” But I looked at Malik leaning on my back and Aaliyah asleep on Maya’s chest. They are not spectators of revenge.
Slowly, I whispered to Maya. “Before, they kicked you out of home. Now they are afraid life will kick them out. That is their business. Ours is to take care of our own home.”
Maya nodded. “I don’t need to see them fall lower, Pops,” she said. “Seeing my children here is enough.”
The moped taxi drove away. The figures of Marcus and Beatatrice became small. Then they disappeared around the curve.
That night, after putting the children to bed, I sat on the edge of the mattress. The light was dim, the room small, the walls damp. I remembered the night at the gas station—the van parked in the corner, Maya and Malik sleeping curled up. At that moment, I felt very late as a father.
Now I saw Maya asleep between Malik and Aaliyah. Their breathing was soft, rhythmic. There was no lock they could change in secret. There was no door they could close in front of us.
I stroked Maya’s hair, remembering her head against the glass at the gas station. “I almost lost you,” I whispered. “Now that I can see you here with your children, that is enough.”
For the first time in so long, this chest was not full of rage. Our life was still difficult, but we were standing on our own feet. Those who once trampled now know what it feels like to fall.
And my task as a father and grandfather—only one remains: never allow us to become people like them.
This story taught me that karma always finds its way. Those who treat family as a burden, those who believe they can trample on the weakest without consequences, sooner or later face the consequences of their own actions. And those who fight with love and dignity, even if the path is difficult, find the way to stand up.