My mother did not come to the hospital to hold my hand.

Because of my recovering health, the preliminary deposition was held in a secure conference room at Crestview Memorial.

I wore a tailored navy blazer over a soft white blouse. My hair was styled to partially cover the scar on my head, but I stood tall. When I walked into the room, flanked by Marcus and Detective Miller, my parents were already seated across the massive oak table.

They looked destroyed.

Eleanor’s roots had grown out, revealing stark gray hair. Her skin was sallow, devoid of her expensive creams and facials. She wore a bright orange jumpsuit that swallowed her frame. Arthur looked ten years older, trembling slightly as he stared at the table.

Julian wasn't there. He had taken a plea deal to testify against them to save his own skin.

When my mother saw me, her eyes widened. She expected to see the fragile, dying girl she had assaulted. Instead, she saw a vibrant, healthy, fiercely angry woman.

“Clara,” Eleanor gasped, tears instantly springing to her eyes. She leaned forward against the cuffs chaining her wrists to the table. “Oh, my baby. Look at you. You’re alive. Thank God.”

The manipulation was so deeply ingrained in her DNA that she couldn't turn it off, even now.

“Do not speak directly to my client,” Marcus snapped, his voice cracking like a whip in the silent room.

Eleanor ignored him, her voice cracking into a desperate sob. “Clara, please. You have to drop the charges. This was a massive misunderstanding! The stress of seeing you so sick... I just snapped! I wasn't in my right mind! You’re my daughter, I gave you life! You can't let them lock me away in that horrible place!”

I sat down slowly, folding my hands on the table. I looked her dead in the eyes.

“You didn't give me life, Eleanor,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm. “You gave me genetics. The donor from Portland gave me life. The doctors in this hospital gave me life. You just tried to beat it out of me for a check.”

Arthur finally looked up. “Clara, please. Your mother is sick. She needs psychiatric help, not a prison cell. And Julian is ruined. We lost our house to pay the legal retainers. We have nothing left. Hasn't there been enough punishment?”

“You stood in front of the door, Arthur,” I said, my voice dropping to a glacial whisper. “You watched her smash my skull open, and you blocked the window so nobody would interrupt the murder. You didn't care if I died, as long as you got the password to my banking app.”

“I panicked!” Arthur cried.

“No. You calculated,” I corrected him. I turned to their public defender, a tired-looking man who clearly hated his clients. “I will not accept a plea deal. Take it to trial. Let a jury watch the video.”

My mother let out a guttural scream, lunging across the table. “You ungrateful little bitch! I raised you! You owe me!”