Chapter 8 - The Forgotten Woman
While the Evelyn Medical Center flourished, Natalie Reed found herself in a prison of her own making.
Having lost her child to Daniel, cut off by her father, and publicly disgraced by the trial details, Natalie was forced to take a job as a night-shift receptionist at a low-end motel on the outskirts of Memphis.
Her life had been reduced to fluorescent lights, cheap carpet, and ringing phones.
One rainy midnight in November, Natalie sat behind the bulletproof glass counter of the motel lobby, staring at her cracked smartphone screen.
She was scrolling through the social media pages of the Evelyn Foundation.
On the screen was a photograph of me standing on a stage at a global health summit in New York, accepting an award for maternal healthcare innovation. Beside me stood Ethan, holding Evelyn, both of us looking happy, radiant, and peaceful.
Natalie’s manicured fingernails—now chipped and unkept—dug into her palm.
"Why?" she whimpered to the empty, quiet lobby. "Why does she get everything? Why does she get the hospital, the money, the praise... while I have nothing?!"
"Excuse me, miss?"
A tired truck driver knocked on the glass counter, holding a credit card. "Can I get a key for room 112?"
Natalie slowly looked up, her face bitter and drawn. "Fifty dollars cash deposit."
As she processed the transaction, her phone buzzed with an incoming email notification.
It was an automated legal update from her court-appointed attorney regarding her monthly visitation petition for her son, Liam.
She opened the file frantically, her hands shaking.
PETITION DENIED. Family Court of Texas maintains full custody order with Daniel Reed. Supervised visitation remains suspended pending completion of psychiatric evaluation.
Natalie dropped her phone onto the counter. The screen shattered further, cracking right across the image of my smiling face.
She slumped back into her plastic office chair, pulling her worn sweater tightly around her shoulders.
May you like
There were no media cameras here. There were no white roses. There was no Grant Whitmore to buy her way out of trouble.
She was completely, utterly alone.
