Chapter 17 - lucinda lost more freedom without losing the title of mother
The Harbor Crest investigation lasted another eight months.
Isla learned to roll over.
Then sit.
Then scream whenever I left the room.
Elisa turned eight.
Lucinda’s supervised visits continued.
No violations.
That was important.
I hated admitting anything about Lucinda could be important in a positive direction.
But parenting decisions had to follow current evidence.
Not my anger.
Then the prosecutor filed additional charges.
Not every charge I had imagined during sleepless nights.
Enough.
Lucinda eventually accepted a plea tied to drugging me without consent and related conduct surrounding the hotel incident.
The exact legal language felt sterile compared with what it meant.
She admitted putting medication into my drink.
Admitted arranging the suite in advance.
Admitted knowing I was impaired when she brought me upstairs.
She did not contest that Isla was conceived during that encounter.
The court imposed a sentence that included a custodial period, followed by supervision and treatment requirements.
Her existing parenting case changed immediately.
Not terminated.
Changed.
Isla was still an infant.
The family court suspended Lucinda’s direct in-person contact during incarceration.
Medical updates continued through counsel.
Photographs only if the parenting coordinator approved.
I was granted primary physical custody.
Elisa celebrated.
I did not.
She found me in the kitchen reading the order.
“So Isla stays?”
“Yes.”
“With us?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
She frowned.
“What?”
“It can be good that Isla has stability here.”
“Yes.”
“And still sad that her mom made choices that prevent her from being here.”
Elisa’s face hardened.
“I’m not sad for Lucinda.”
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
“Then why say it?”
Because children liked moral arithmetic.
Bad adult loses.
Good family wins.
Simple.
But Isla would eventually need a story that did not begin with adults celebrating her mother’s punishment.
“Because someday Isla might be sad.”
Elisa went quiet.
“That doesn’t mean she likes bad things.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t mean she loves us less.”
“No.”
She thought.
Then:
“Can she love Lucinda?”
“Yes.”
That answer was harder for me than I wanted to admit.
Elisa watched my face.
“You don’t like that.”
“I have feelings.”
“You say that when feelings are annoying.”
“Accurate.”
She smiled.
Then asked:
“Can I hate Lucinda?”
I considered the word.
“You can feel whatever you feel.”
“But you cannot treat Isla badly because Isla might feel something different.”
Elisa looked almost offended.
“I would never.”
“I know.”
For now.
But sibling resentment rarely announced itself politely before arriving.
I wanted the rule established early.
Lucinda began writing letters from custody.
Not to Elisa.
To Isla.
The parenting coordinator screened every one.
At first I refused to read them.
Then realized that was childish.
Isla might someday want them.
The first letter said:
Dear Isla,
You are six months old today.
I am not allowed to see you.
That is because of choices I made before and after you were conceived.
I am being told to write only what is appropriate for you to read someday, not what makes me feel better now.
Good start.
Then:
I love you.
I stared at the words.
Anger rose.
How dare she.
Then I caught myself.
Lucinda’s capacity to love Isla was not mine to approve.
The question was whether she could love without converting love into entitlement.
That remained unanswered.
The letter continued.
Your father did not take you from me.
My actions created the conditions under which other adults decided where you would be safest.
I read that sentence three times.
Then stored the letter.
No reply.
No reward.
But I kept it.
Because someday Isla deserved access to evidence that her mother had either changed—
or had not.
May you like
And I did not want my anger editing the archive before Isla was old enough to choose.
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