The phone call came at 6:47 a.m. on Christmas Eve. My daughter Ivy’s name flashed across the screen, which was odd since she was supposed to be with my sister, Margot, and my parents for the holidays. I’d taken an overseas work assignment in London that required me to miss Christmas for the first time in my daughter’s three years of life. The guilt had been eating at me for weeks, but Margot insisted she’d make it magical for Ivy.
“Mommy.”
The word came out as a sob, broken and desperate. My heart seized. “Baby, what’s wrong? Where’s Aunt Margot?”
“They left me.” Her voice dissolved into hiccuping cries. “There’s a note. I can’t read all of it, but I see my name, and it says something about a break.”
Ice flooded my veins. “What do you mean they left you? Where are you?”
“I’m at Aunt Margot’s house. I woke up and everyone was gone. There’s a note on the table.” Her breathing came in sharp gasps. “Mommy, why did they leave me? Am I bad?”
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing my voice into a calm that felt like a grotesque parody. “Listen to me carefully, sweetheart. You are not bad. You are perfect and I love you so much. Can you see the note? What does it look like?”
Through tears, she described the paper on the kitchen table. I asked her to hold it up to her tablet’s camera during our video call. The words written in my sister’s handwriting made my blood freeze.
We needed a break from you. Don’t call us. There’s food in the fridge.
Professional composure meant nothing in that moment. “Stay right there. Don’t go outside. I’m calling Mrs. Rodriguez next door to come get you. And then mommy’s getting on a plane.”
“Please hurry, mommy.” Her sob shattered something fundamental in my chest.
I disconnected and immediately dialed Margot—straight to voicemail. Same with my mother, Denise. My father, Lawrence, didn’t even have his phone on. Rage built in my throat like bile, but I forced it down to dial my neighbor who’d given me her number for emergencies. Mrs. Rodriguez answered on the second ring.
“Natalie, is everything all right?”
“I need you to go get Ivy from my sister’s house right now. She’s three years old and they’ve abandoned her there alone.” The words tasted like poison.
“What? They did what?” The horror in her voice was absolute.
“Please, I’ll explain everything, but she’s terrified and alone. Can you go get her immediately and keep her until I can get there?”
“I’m already putting my shoes on. Give me the address.”
While Mrs. Rodriguez drove across town, I pulled up flight options with trembling fingers. The earliest connection through New York would get me home in thirteen hours with layovers. Thirteen hours while my baby thought she’d been abandoned on Christmas Eve. I booked it without hesitation, then tried my family again. Nothing.
Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Rodriguez called back. “I have her. Oh, Natalie. She’s in her pajamas and she’s been crying so hard. What kind of monsters do this to a child?”
“Is she okay? Let me talk to her.”
Ivy’s small voice came through. “Mommy?”
“I’m coming home right now, baby. Mrs. Rodriguez is going to take care of you until I get there. You’re safe now.”
“Why did they leave me? Did I do something wrong?” The question drove a stake through my heart. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not one single thing. The grown-ups made a terrible choice, but mommy’s fixing it.”
After assuring Ivy I’d be there soon, Mrs. Rodriguez came back on. “There’s more, Natalie. I found the note on the kitchen table. This is child abandonment. You could press charges. Take pictures of everything. The note, the house, all of it.”
My phone buzzed with incoming texts while I threw clothes into a bag.
My mother: She’s too much drama for Christmas. We needed this break.
My father: We deserve a vacation from her bratty attitude. She never stops whining.
Margot: Finally, a peaceful holiday without that crying mess. You should thank us for taking her off your hands for so long.
Each message arrived with photos attached. My family on a pristine white sand beach, tropical drinks with umbrellas. My parents in matching resort robes. Margot and her husband, Brett, lounging by an infinity pool. They’d gone to the Majestic Palms Resort, a five-star property in the Bahamas that cost roughly $1,500 per night during peak season.
They had planned this—coordinated flights, packed bags, arranged transportation—all while deliberately excluding my three-year-old daughter. Then they’d left her alone in an empty house with a cruel note on Christmas Eve.
They will pay for this, I swore to myself as the cab hurtled toward Heathrow. I will make them pay for every single one of her tears.
The flight was torture. Every minute stretched like an eon while I imagined Ivy’s confusion and fear. She was three years old. She still believed in Santa Claus and magic and the fundamental goodness of family. They’d stolen that from her.
Mrs. Rodriguez met me at Margot’s house, with Ivy wrapped in a blanket despite the mild California winter. My daughter launched herself at me with a wail that echoed off the suburban houses. I held her while she sobbed, feeling her small body shake with the force of her abandonment.
“They said I was too much.” She whimpered against my shoulder. “They said I cried too much and ruined things.”
“That’s not true. You’re perfect exactly as you are.” I kissed her hair, breathing in the strawberry scent of her shampoo. The scent of safety, of home. The scent my family had tried to erase. “We’re going home now.”
While Ivy used the bathroom, Mrs. Rodriguez pulled me aside. Her expression held barely contained fury. “There’s something else. Yesterday evening, your sister came back.”
A cold dread settled in my stomach. “What happened?”
“Ivy had been calling them, crying, begging them to come back. Margot showed up, went inside for maybe five minutes, and then left again. After she drove away, I heard Ivy screaming. I went over and found her holding her face. Natalie,” she took a shaky breath, “your sister slapped her. Hard enough to leave a mark.”
The world tilted sideways. She hit my daughter.
“I took pictures. The handprint was clear on her cheek. I documented everything, in case you need it.”
Something cold and sharp crystallized in my chest. This wasn’t just neglect or thoughtlessness. This was cruelty. Calculated, deliberate cruelty toward a defenseless child. The revulsion that rose in me was hot and acidic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t break down. My rage had frozen into a singular purpose.
“Send me everything you have. Every photo, every text, every piece of evidence.”
Mrs. Rodriguez nodded, her eyes firm. “Whatever you need. That baby deserves justice.”
We flew home that afternoon. Ivy fell asleep against me on the plane, exhausted from crying. I spent the flight scrolling through the evidence Mrs. Rodriguez had compiled: photos of the handprint on Ivy’s face, the abandoned house, the note in Margot’s handwriting, screenshots of their mocking texts and resort photos.
My family had spent years treating me like the responsible one, the dependable daughter who cleaned up their messes. Margot was the golden child who could do no wrong, despite her string of failed businesses funded by our parents. Lawrence and Denise enabled every selfish impulse she had while expecting me to be grateful for their attention.
When Ivy was born, they’d been enthusiastic grandparents and an aunt for about six months. Then the reality of a toddler’s needs became inconvenient. Denise complained about the noise. Lawrence griped about interrupted dinners. Margot made snide comments about my parenting every chance she got.
But this crossed every line I didn’t even know existed.
Back home, I settled Ivy with her favorite movie and a mountain of snacks. She clung to me like a barnacle, terrified I’d disappear too. I made cocoa and built a blanket fort in the living room, trying to reconstruct some sense of safety and normalcy.
“Mommy, are we going to see grandma and grandpa for Christmas?” she asked around her thumb.
“No, baby. We’re going to have our own special Christmas, just us.”
“Did I make them mad?”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
