My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 09

My Harvard-Law Mom Slapped Me Over 3×4—So I Stripped Away Her Elite Title Overnight Chapter 09

He hung up and stood by the nurses’ station, looking toward the ER.

I floated to his side.

“Grandpa.”

He couldn’t hear. But his lips moved. He said two words.

“Nora.”

Then he sat down in a chair by the station, clasped his hands, and didn’t move.

Like a stone. Like a mountain.

By noon, more people came. Not police — reporters.

Three or four of them, with cameras and microphones, gathered at the hospital entrance.

When Mom saw them from upstairs, her face collapsed.

“Who called the reporters?” She turned to Dad.

He looked just as confused. “Not me.”

Mom looked at Grandpa and Grandma. Grandpa sat in the hallway, face blank. Grandma was still outside the ER, eyes swollen like peaches.

“Was it that teacher?” Mom hissed.

She grabbed her phone to call Ms. Taylor, but Dad stopped her.

“Don’t. It’ll only make things worse.”

“So what? We just let them film us?”

Dad thought for a moment. “I’ll go down and tell them the family is too upset to talk.”

“And then?”

“And then… we’ll figure it out.”

Mom laughed bitterly. “This is what a PhD gets us?”

Dad’s face twitched. He didn’t answer. He went downstairs.

The reporters didn’t leave, but they moved to the sidewalk outside.

I floated above the lobby and heard one reporter on the phone.

“Yes, the highway case. Six-year-old girl kicked out of the car by her parents, hit on the emergency lane in the middle of the night.”

“Sources are the child’s teacher and hospital staff.”

“Mother is Harvard Law. Father is a finance PhD from Stanford. Oldest son is a math prodigy. Classic elite family.”

“The girl has old injuries — long-term abuse.”

“There’s video from the accident. Police have it.”

He hung up and said to his colleague, “This story is going to blow up.”

I floated above his head and felt something strange.

Not happiness. Not sadness.

Something I couldn’t name.

I just wanted Mom to know —

I’m not a loser.

At two in the afternoon, the ER lights went out.

The doctor came out, looking less grim than the night before.

“She’s stable enough to move to the ICU.”

“But she’s still in a coma. We don’t know when she’ll wake up.”

“Best case: three to five days. Worst case…”

He didn’t finish.

Grandma grabbed his arm. “Please. Save my girl.”

The doctor nodded.

During the transfer, I floated next to the gurney.

Nurses hooked up tubes and wires, carefully wheeling the tiny body down the hall.

Mom stood in the hallway, watching.

Her eyes landed on the gauze wrapped face. Her lips moved.

I stared at her.

What was she going to say?

Sorry? Or just calculating how much trouble this would cause?

The gurney passed. Mom turned and got into the elevator. Down to the parking garage.

I followed.

She sat in the car for twenty minutes.

First, three phone calls.

One to her law partner: “I need two weeks off. Family emergency.”

One to Connor’s teacher: “Connor might miss a few days. He’ll study at home.”

One to a number I didn’t recognize: “Hello? Is this Mr. Smith? I need legal advice. A family matter.”

Then she hung up, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

For one moment, she finally relaxed.

In the dim light, her face looked years older.

I crouched in the passenger seat and watched her.

“Mom.”

She couldn’t hear.

“Mom. Are you scared?”