Ten days after I gave birth, I came downstairs carrying my daughter and found nine people waiting at my kitchen table.

Seven minutes felt like an eternity.

I moved silently across the carpet, sliding my feet into slip-on sneakers. I grabbed Frankie’s diaper bag, shoving in her medical records, my passport, my social security card, and the small envelope of cash I had saved from tutoring over the summer.

Frankie was strapped securely into the chest carrier. I zipped my light jacket over her, keeping her head protected and muffled against the coming noise.

Outside the bedroom window, the heavy oak branches of the backyard magnolia stretched toward the garage roof. It was a drop I could have made easily before pregnancy, but with my healing body and an infant against my chest, jumping was out of the question.

I had to use the laundry room door on the ground floor.

I crept back to the bedroom door and listened. Connie and Ray were in the kitchen, arguing heatedly over the phone, likely with their personal attorney. Josh was in the downstairs hallway, murmuring incoherently into his hands.

I unlocked the bedroom deadbolt without a click.

Down the hallway, the back staircase led straight down into the mudroom—an old architectural quirk of our 1920s craftsman home that Connie always hated. I descended step by step, testing each riser with my weight to avoid the creaks.

At the bottom step, the mudroom was dark and cool. Through the window, I saw Elena’s dusty gray sedan pull into the service alley behind our fence.

Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open.

Alison stepped into the mudroom holding an empty glass. Her eyes went wide as she caught sight of me with the packed diaper bag.

"Laura?" she whispered.

I froze. My entire future hung in that single second.

"Alison," I said, my voice trembling but sharp as glass. "You held Frankie yesterday. You looked at her face. Are you really going to help your mother steal my baby?"

Alison’s lips quivered. Her eyes dropped to the small bundle under my jacket. For years, Alison had been Connie’s obedient foot soldier, broken down by years of maternal criticism. But right now, the humanity in her cracked through the conditioning.

"The back gate is unlocked," Alison whispered, her eyes brimming with sudden tears. "Go. Before Dad looks out the window."

I didn't wait. I pushed through the back door into the humid Georgia heat, sprinting down the gravel path. Behind me, I heard Ray’s voice shout from the kitchen, but by the time his boots hit the porch, I was already in the passenger seat of Elena's sedan.