A Mother's Reckoning

A Mother's Reckoning

Zaccaria Linn

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The polo match shimmered with Hamptons elite, a cruel contrast to my jazz singer soul. Julian, my husband, was, as always, obsessed with his "white moonlight," Scarlett Vance, and her daughter Penelope. My twin sons, Leo and Noah, just five years old, were the only music in my gilded cage. Then Penelope, Scarlett's daughter, had a medical crisis, aplastic anemia, needing a bone marrow transplant. Julian' s words froze my blood: Leo and Noah, my babies, were perfect matches. He ignored my pleas, dismissing their age, proclaiming them "useful to the family." He ripped my sons from my arms, forcing them into a dangerous, excessive donation for Penelope, leaving them bleeding and feverish. While my sons lay dying, he was at a gala celebrating Penelope' s "miraculous recovery." He called my desperate calls for help "dramatic," then hung up. With no drivers, no one to help, I scooped my fading boys into my arms, rushing into the pouring Manhattan rain. I begged a public hospital for help, drenched in their blood, only to be met with news reports of Julian lighting up the Empire State Building in celebratory pink, and witnesses whispering, "Negligent mother." Then the doctor came. "They're gone." My sons, my world, brutally taken by a cold, calculating man who saw them as a resource. But Julian didn't know his mother, Eleanor Thorne, was about to expose the monstrous lie he' d sacrificed our children for. He didn' t know this was just the beginning of my reckoning.

Introduction

The polo match shimmered with Hamptons elite, a cruel contrast to my jazz singer soul.

Julian, my husband, was, as always, obsessed with his "white moonlight," Scarlett Vance, and her daughter Penelope.

My twin sons, Leo and Noah, just five years old, were the only music in my gilded cage.

Then Penelope, Scarlett's daughter, had a medical crisis, aplastic anemia, needing a bone marrow transplant.

Julian' s words froze my blood: Leo and Noah, my babies, were perfect matches.

He ignored my pleas, dismissing their age, proclaiming them "useful to the family."

He ripped my sons from my arms, forcing them into a dangerous, excessive donation for Penelope, leaving them bleeding and feverish.

While my sons lay dying, he was at a gala celebrating Penelope' s "miraculous recovery."

He called my desperate calls for help "dramatic," then hung up.

With no drivers, no one to help, I scooped my fading boys into my arms, rushing into the pouring Manhattan rain.

I begged a public hospital for help, drenched in their blood, only to be met with news reports of Julian lighting up the Empire State Building in celebratory pink, and witnesses whispering, "Negligent mother."

Then the doctor came.

"They're gone."

My sons, my world, brutally taken by a cold, calculating man who saw them as a resource.

But Julian didn't know his mother, Eleanor Thorne, was about to expose the monstrous lie he' d sacrificed our children for.

He didn' t know this was just the beginning of my reckoning.

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When Sisterhood Becomes Betrayal

When Sisterhood Becomes Betrayal

Horror

5.0

The dream always started the same way: my sister, Sarah, screaming my name, her face twisted in pure terror, pointing at a world where the dead walked. This time, the screaming wasn't a dream. It was real, coming from down the hall. "They're coming! I saw them!" Sarah shrieked, convinced her nightmares were prophecies. My parents rushed to her, cooing about a bad dream, but Sarah insisted it was real, clearer this time, a prophecy of rotting flesh and dead eyes. I lay in my bed, heart a slow drum, remembering my first life: the foolish concern, the attempts to reason that always ended with their blind siding of Sarah. My logic was met with her tears, my calm with her hysterics, and our parents, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, labeled me "insensitive," not understanding how "special" Sarah was. My efforts to save their retirement, to hide car keys from her "prepper" conventions, led to slaps and silent treatments, to accusations of sabotaging her "survival instincts." The family crumbled around her delusion, losing their house, savings, everything, and when the apocalypse never came, they blamed me for not believing, for not supporting their perfect, unified front of madness. They cast me out, and I died alone in a homeless shelter, not from a zombie, but from pneumonia. Now, I was 22 again, lying in my childhood bed, listening to the prelude of that same disaster, a second chance at a test I' d failed spectacularly. This time, I knew the answers. "It' s going to start with the birds!" Sarah yelled, predicting a mass blackbird death event, completely unaware I knew about the city' s planned fumigation. My parents leaned into her every word, their faces a mix of worry and excitement, while a bitter taste filled my mouth. I wouldn' t stop her. I wouldn' t save them. This time, I would watch them burn. And I would bring the gasoline.

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