My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 05

My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 05

Mom’s face went bright red.

“What are you implying? Kids get bumps and bruises all the time—”

“Ms. Miller,” the doctor cut her off. “Linear scars and patterned bruises from repeated strikes are not normal childhood injuries.”

“We’ve already filed a report as required.”

Mom’s mouth opened and closed. No words came out.

Grandpa stood there, his body stiffening.

He didn’t look at Mom. He looked at Dad.

“Ryan.”

Dad lowered his head.

“Did you know about these injuries?”

Dad didn’t speak.

“Did you know?” Grandpa’s voice cracked.

“I…” Dad pushed up his glasses. “Susan is strict with the kids, but her intentions are—”

Smack.

Grandpa slapped Dad across the face.

First time I’d ever seen Grandpa hit anyone.

His hand was much bigger than Mom’s. The sound was much louder, too.

Dad’s glasses flew off and hit the wall. The lens cracked.

“Strict?” Grandpa’s lips trembled. “You call a broken bone strict?”

Grandma leaned against the wall, crying so hard she couldn’t speak.

I floated outside the emergency room and peered through the window.

Inside, a tiny body was covered with a white sheet. Only the face showed.

Swollen. Bruised. Half wrapped in gauze.

That was me.

Lips purple. Eyes closed. Chest barely moving.

I pressed against the glass.

“Nora. Don’t be scared. You’re still breathing. You’re still alive.”

Her chest moved again. The monitor line jumped.

I let out a breath.

The resuscitation lasted six hours.

At dawn, the doctor came out again.

“She’s stable for now. But not out of danger. Her body is very weak. Severe malnutrition. She weighs nearly ten pounds less than other kids her age.”

“The next forty-eight hours are critical.”

Grandma stayed right outside the ER, slumped against the wall — dozing, waking, crying.

Grandpa made several calls. I don’t know who to.

Mom sat at the end of the hall, arms crossed, face blank.

Connor sat next to her, looking at his phone.

Dad paced. Every few steps, he pushed up his cracked glasses.

The two officers hadn’t left. They stood by the nurses’ station, examining the bloody camera.

“Does this record video?”

“Yes,” Mom’s voice came from down the hall. “And location tracking.”

“We need to download the footage.”

Mom shot up. “I bought that. It’s my personal property.”

“Ms. Miller, this is evidence in an active investigation,” the older officer said calmly.

“What investigation? It was an accident. A truck driver hit her. That has nothing to do with me.”

“A six-year-old child was on a highway at night, with old injuries on her body. That requires investigation.”

Mom’s face changed.

I floated up to the ceiling and watched her face tighten, piece by piece.

She was scared.

I’d never seen Mom scared before. She was always the strongest person in the room. Her hand never shook when she hit me.

But now her right hand was trembling.

Dad walked over and whispered something.

Mom shoved him away. “Don’t touch me. If you hadn’t played the nice guy in the car that night, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Dad’s lips moved. He said nothing.

Grandpa had been sitting on the bench outside the ER. He heard that. Slowly, he looked up at Dad.

He stared at him for a long time.

I’d never seen that look before.

It wasn’t anger.

It was disappointment. Worse than anger. Much worse.

I drifted over to Grandpa.

“Grandpa, don’t be sad. Nora’s still alive.”

I reached out to touch his hair.

My hand passed through his shoulder.

I couldn’t feel anything.

At ten in the morning, a nurse wheeled equipment into the ER.

Another nurse came out with a stack of test results and handed them to Grandpa.

“Sir, the test results are in.”

Grandpa took them. He flipped through the pages, one by one. His hands shook more with every page.

Grandma leaned in. She couldn’t read much, but she saw the red arrows and the bold numbers. The color drained from her face.

“Severe malnutrition. Anemia. Bone density below normal for age.”

Grandpa’s voice broke.

“She’s six years old.”

He closed the stack, stood up, and walked to the end of the hall.

When Mom saw him coming, she leaned back in her chair.

“Do you not feed her at home?”

“Of course we do,” Mom frowned. “Every meal.”

“What do you feed her?”

“Rice. Vegetables. Same as Connor.”

“What about Connor? What do you give him? Milk? Fruit? Supplements?”

Mom was silent.

Grandpa spread the test results across the arm of her chair, one by one.

“Severe malnutrition. A six-year-old child. Severe.”

He gasped for breath after every word.

“Susan. What do you think of my granddaughter?”