Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Discarded Wife & Mother: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

Sera's POVThe courtroom smelled like lemon cleaner and old paper. Light came through high windows in slices. My hand had gone numb from holding the folder until the edges bit into my palm."Ms Blackwood," Judge Harrison said, his voice flat. "This court has reviewed the submitted materials. The logs provided by Miss Sterling, the audio clips, and the therapist notes will be admitted."James Morrison leaned toward me. "We object, Your Honor. The recordings were made without proper consent. They are highly edited.""They are relevant," the judge answered. "The court is persuaded that the child’s statements are consistent. We will allow them."A woman across the room smiled in a way that was too clean. Vivienne sat perfectly straight, hands folded, eyes on me as if I were a small, fragile thing to be admired and then put away.Dr. Hartman spoke with the steady calm of someone who had practiced compassion until it sounded like a fact. "I worked with Oliver. He demonstrated prefabricated

Sera's POV"I will sign," I said, and my hand did not shake when the pen touched the paper.James folded his hands as if he could fold time back into place. "You understand the implications.""I understand," I said. "I am protecting him."Jonathan stood by the window and watched the city light like it belonged to someone else. "Sera, you cannot just walk away.""I am not walking away from Oliver," I said. "I am walking away from a courtroom that would make him a spectacle."Vivienne smiled from the sofa where she had arranged herself like a stage prop. "Ms Blackwood, this is sensible. For Oliver.""For Oliver," I echoed. I signed the second form. The ink dried slower than I wanted.James slid the final document toward me. "This is temporary," he said. "We will petition for modification once the media cycle cools. We will gather evidence.""I know the plan," I said. "Do what you must. Protect the boy. Protect his privacy. Do not let them put him on television."Jonathan's jaw worked. "

Sera's POVThe console was smaller than I expected. It sat like a sleeping beetle under a sheet of dust, a single green light blinking slow and patient. I had my mother's journal open on my lap and a pencil between my fingers."Are you sure about this?" Daniel asked. He had set the lamp on a crate and was balancing a mug of takeout coffee on his knee like he planned to stay."I am sure," I said. "I have to know."He shrugged, which was more like a surrender than a gesture. "All right. I am just the guy who moves boxes. Not the tech wizard.""You are helpful," I told him. "That is enough."He smiled and found the power cord. "Okay then. Which one do I plug into the big box here?""The one with the notch," I said, and my voice sounded like a child reading directions. I traced a margin note in Mei Ling's hand. She had written small, in both English and Chinese, and then underlined something three times."Spectral fingerprint consistent across ultraviolet and near infrared," I read aloud.

Oliver's POVDr. Hartman had a big smile, the kind that showed all his teeth but not his eyes. He had a clipboard on his lap and a little glass of juice on the table next to him. The room smelled like crayons and lemon cleaner, but there weren’t any toys. Just chairs.“Ready for our game, Oliver?” he asked.I nodded. “What game?”“True or False,” he said. “You know how that works?”“Yeah,” I said. “Like in school. You say something and I say true or false.”“Exactly.” He winked. “And you get a star sticker every time you’re brave.”“Brave?” I tilted my head. “Why brave?”“Because telling the truth takes courage,” he said, peeling a shiny gold star from a sheet. “And you’re a courageous boy.”I liked stickers. I liked the shiny ones the best. “Okay,” I whispered.He cleared his throat. “True or false: your mother forgets things a lot.”I frowned. “Mommy doesn’t forget. She remembers everything.”His smile didn’t change. “Hmm. But remember when she forgot your lunch box?”“That was one

Sera's POVThe gallery smelled like old varnish and new nerves. We had moved the Whitmore frame into the center of the room and I could feel the painting watching us back, smug and quiet and wrong. Marcus stood near the rig, his fingers tracing a checklist without looking at it. Daniel held my coat like a talisman."Ready?" Marcus asked."I am," I said, though my mouth tasted like metal.Whitmore cleared his throat. "I hope this will be quick. I have a flight this afternoon.""You booked the slot for a demonstration," I replied. "We will be quick and we will be precise."He smiled like he had already decided how the afternoon would end. "Confidence is attractive, Ms Blackwood. Do your thing."The machine hummed when Marcus turned the dial. Light spilled across the canvas in a way that made the varnish breathe. My hands did not shake; they did the work my mother had taught me, the steps she had written into the margins of her journals until they became muscle memory."Spectral sweep,"