Chapter 3 - The Freezing Apartment
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The drive to my apartment felt like a blur of neon lights and heavy snowfall. I navigated the icy streets of Chicago with a singular, burning focus.
When I finally pulled into the cracked, pothole-filled parking lot of my apartment complex, reality crashed back down on me. The building was a dilapidated brick structure on the edge of the city, plagued by drafty windows and a radiator that only worked when it felt like it.
I unbuckled Lily from her car seat, wrapping her tightly in her thick pink blanket, and grabbed the diaper bag and the few paltry Christmas gifts I had salvaged from my mother's tree.
We climbed the three flights of stairs to our unit. The hallway smelled of stale cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage. I unlocked the deadbolt and stepped inside, immediately turning on the space heater in the living room to chase away the bone-deep chill.
I laid Lily gently in her crib in the corner of the small bedroom. She was exhausted, her heavy eyelids drooping shut almost instantly. I stood over her for a long time, watching her tiny chest rise and fall.
"I am so sorry, baby," I whispered into the quiet room. "I thought I was protecting you. I thought we were alone."
I walked back into the living room and spread the documents on the cheap, scratched coffee table.
Twenty-five thousand dollars a month. That meant my mother had stolen over two hundred thousand dollars since Lily was born. And that was just the child support. Arthur's note implied there had been a massive misunderstanding about our separation.
When I told Arthur I was pregnant, he hadn't answered his phone. The next day, his lawyers had supposedly sent me a cease-and-desist letter, claiming he wanted nothing to do with the child. I had been so broken, so humiliated, that I had leaned entirely on my mother for support.
My mother, who had "generously" offered to handle all legal correspondence so I wouldn't have to face the trauma.
She had forged the cease-and-desist. She had forged the restraining orders. She had built a wall of legal lies between Arthur and me, ensuring that she remained the sole point of contact for the massive trust fund he established.
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I picked up my cheap, prepaid cell phone. I needed to call Arthur. I needed to tell him the truth. But as I dialed the first three digits of the number listed on the letterhead, a heavy, authoritative knock echoed on my apartment door.
I froze. It was 11:30 PM on Christmas night. No one knocked like that unless it was the police. Or worse.
