PART 2
I checked the studio camera recordings until dawn. In the video, my mother would sneak in late at night, force open a locked drawer, and copy the backup code to the safe. She took out cash, gold bars, and legal folders over a period of several months.
The bank statements were even worse because every deposit meant for Daphne’s organic food and prenatal care ended up in Mason’s bank account just hours later. There were transactions labeled as bet payment, down payment on a truck, and urgent for business. While my pregnant wife ate instant noodles because Rosalind locked the kitchen pantry, my brother was burning through our hard-earned money in casinos and local bars.
The next morning, Rosalind returned to our house with Mason, several relatives, and a giant banner that read: UNGRATEFUL SON EXPELS HIS AGED MOTHER. They were shouting in front of the gate, recording videos with their cell phones, and demanding that I hand over the house and the company right away. Mason was wearing a shiny jacket, and a shady lawyer was standing right beside him holding a notarized folder.
“Mom provided the initial capital you started with,” Mason claimed arrogantly. “Either you appoint me general director today, or we will make a public complaint regarding domestic violence and corporate fraud.”
I threw copies of the illegal bank transfers and photographs of the empty safe onto the driveway. “Here is your motherly love,” I shouted back. “She stole millions from us and gave it all to a common gambler.”
Rosalind did not even bother to deny the accusation. “A son’s money also belongs to his mother,” she snapped.
At that moment, Daphne appeared right behind me, having come downstairs despite my clear instructions to rest. She looked extremely pale, but she spoke with a firmness I had never heard from her before.
“You also hit me because I refused to give you the safe’s combination code,” Daphne said directly to my mother. “You left me without proper food, and yesterday you kicked your own unborn grandson.”
Rosalind opened her mouth to insult her, but Daphne suddenly doubled over in extreme pain. A dark red stain began to spread rapidly across her light-colored dress.
I rushed her to the nearby Valley Memorial Hospital as fast as I could drive. The emergency doctors confirmed a severe placental abruption and immediately ordered an emergency cesarean section.
I waited five agonizing hours in front of the operating room, staring at my hands stained with dried blood and repeating a single prayer to keep them both alive.
The lead surgeon finally stepped out into the hallway. “Your wife is currently stable,” he informed me gently. “The baby was born prematurely, weighs only four pounds, and will remain in the intensive care unit, but you arrived just in time.”
I broke down in tears of relief right there in the hallway.
Hours later, when Daphne woke up in her recovery room, she asked me to look for a hidden bag stored in the baby’s nursery closet. Inside that bag, I found a certified copy of the original articles of incorporation, official pawn shop receipts for her necklace, proof of her personal savings, and a legal agreement signed twelve years ago. Daphne officially owned forty percent of the entire company.
In addition, she had recorded several spoken threats made by Rosalind and Mason over the past few months.
Before I could digest everything, our corporate legal advisor, Bridgette Porterfield, called my phone. “Paxton, your brother just filed forged documents to take full control,” she warned me. “However, one of the primary signatures is clearly forged, so if you agree to meet tomorrow morning at the notary office, we can catch them in the act.”
I looked at my brave wife and then at our newborn son inside his incubator. For the first time in my life, raw anger stopped controlling my actions because I finally had solid proof.
None of them could possibly imagine who would walk through that door when the official signing began.
