“I don’t even know what it is,” I admitted.

“Exactly,” Naomi replied. “Which is why you involve professionals. Police non-emergency. Or at least a lawyer who can guide you on reporting.”

I hung up as my phone buzzed again.

Mom: Why aren’t you answering? Don’t be dramatic.
Mom: It’s not what you think.
Mom: You’re going to ruin the family over nothing.

Nothing.

Something hardened in my chest. Loving grandparents don’t hide “nothing” inside a child’s clothing—and then panic-call at dawn.

I typed slowly:

Stop calling. I’m busy. We’ll talk later.

Then I turned off notifications.

An hour later, as I locked the house to pick Emma up early, another message appeared—this one from my father.

Please don’t involve anyone else.

My blood went cold.

Because that was as close to a confession as I’d ever get.

I picked Emma up from school and talked lightly about spelling tests and playground drama, as if the ground beneath our lives hadn’t shifted overnight. But my thoughts circled one question endlessly:

Were they trying to track her, claim access, or set me up for something worse?