Chapter 2 - The Repainting and The Missing Relics
Two hours after the hospital security guard watched Kendra and Linda march out the automatic sliding doors, Simon kissed my forehead, kissed August’s downy dark hair, and went home to our house.
He had two tasks: change the deadbolts immediately and inspect the nursery.
I lay in the dim hospital room, the quiet hum of the monitoring machines providing a steady, comforting rhythm. August was sleeping peacefully in the plastic bassinet beside me, swaddled in a hospital blanket patterned with blue and pink footprints. Every time I looked at him, a fierce, protective heat flared in my chest.
At 9:30 p.m., my phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime call from Simon.
I tapped the screen. Simon’s face appeared, illuminated by the harsh overhead glare of our hallway. He looked completely worn down, his eyes hollowed with exhaustion, but there was an unmistakable fury burning behind his gaze.
“The locksmith just left,” Simon said quietly, keeping his voice down so he wouldn't disturb August through the speaker. “Every single tumbler has been swapped. Front door, back door, side garage door. Even the keypad code has been reset. Your mother’s spare key is completely useless now.”
“Good,” I exhaled, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since labor began. “Did you go upstairs?”
Simon didn’t answer right away. He turned the phone’s camera outward, walking slowly down our upstairs hallway and pushing open the door to what was supposed to be August’s sanctuary.
The smell of cheap acrylic paint hit the camera first—or rather, Simon visibly winced as he stepped inside. The nursery was still garishly, aggressively magenta. But now that the shower guests were gone and the influencer lights had been packed away, the reality of what Kendra had done was laid bare.
It wasn't a professional paint job. Kendra had rushed it in an afternoon while filming content for her social media. The magenta paint had dripped down the baseboards, pooling onto our natural oak floors. Pink spatters speckled the white ceiling. The woodland stencils Simon and I had spent three weekends carefully tracing—the gentle foxes, the sleeping deer, the tall pine trees—had been crudely rolled over with thick, clumpy, semi-gloss paint.
“Look at the trim, Clara,” Simon whispered, panning down.
The painter’s tape hadn’t even been peeled off correctly. It had dried into the wood, tearing off chunks of the varnish when someone had ripped it away.
“Where is Grandma’s quilt?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Simon, did you find it in the garage?”
“I’m heading down there now,” he said.
He walked down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the chilly garage. The box we had spotted earlier was still sitting on the concrete floor, shoved behind an old lawnmower. Simon set his phone down on a workbench, propping it against a paint can so I could see, and pulled open the cardboard flaps.
Inside was the hand-stitched yellow quilt my grandmother had made before she passed away when I was twelve. It was made of vintage feedsack cotton, delicate and soft, with tiny embroidered bumblebees across the border.
Simon lifted it up.
A jagged cry tore out of my throat.
The bottom half of the quilt was soaked in stiff, hardened magenta paint. When Kendra had tipped over her roller tray during her frantic makeover, she hadn’t bothered to clean it up. She had grabbed the nearest rag—my grandmother’s priceless heirloom—wiped the spill off the garage steps, and shoved it into the box to hide it.
“She ruined it,” I sobbed, tears spilling over my cheeks. “Simon, she knew what that quilt was. She knew Grandma made it for my first baby. She hated that Grandma left it to me instead of her.”
“She didn't ruin it out of negligence, Clara,” Simon said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “She did it on purpose.”
He set the quilt down gently on a clean towel and walked back into the house. He walked into our dining room and then into the kitchen.
“Clara,” he said, his voice tightening. “Where did you put the envelope with the shower gift cards?”
“In the white ceramic dish next to the microwave,” I said, wiping my tears. “There were six cards in there from your aunts, plus the cash Aunt Marie gave us for the stroller.”
Simon panned the camera over the counter. The ceramic dish was empty.
“It's gone,” he said.
“What?”
“The dish is empty. And look at the pantry door.”
The small hook where I hung my spare purse was bare. I didn’t use that bag often, but it contained the backup checks for our house insurance and the cash savings we had tucked away for postpartum emergencies—eight hundred dollars in an envelope.
I felt sick. My stomach knotted with visceral disgust.
“They didn’t just paint the room,” I said, realization washing over me like a tidal wave of sewage. “When Mom and Kendra came over while I was in labor... before they came to the hospital... they came back here, didn’t they?”
Simon walked over to the dining room window that faced our driveway. He opened the Ring camera app on his iPad and held it up to the phone screen.
The footage from 4:15 p.m., while I was pushing in delivery room three, was crystal clear.
Kendra’s silver sedan was parked in our driveway. Linda was standing on the porch holding our spare key, while Kendra carried two heavy canvas bags out of our front door. Linda was laughing, pointing at her phone, while Kendra tossed the bags into the trunk.
They had looted our home while my son was taking his very first breaths.
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“Don't touch anything else, Simon,” I whispered, cold rage finally overtaking the tears. “Call the non-emergency police line. We need an officer to walk through this house tonight.”
***