My husband, Mark, was a junior associate at a mid-sized law firm. He was decent, but weak. He loved me, or so I thought, but he loved his mother’s approval even more. And his mother, Mrs. Sterling, despised me. To her, I was Elena, the “freelancer.” The woman who stayed home in sweatpants. The woman who contributed nothing but a pretty face and a womb.

I didn’t know the truth. I didn’t know my “freelance job” was reviewing appellate briefs. I didn’t know my “remote job” was drafting opinions that shaped federal law. I didn’t know I was the Honorable Elena Vance, the youngest federal judge in the district. I had kept my maiden name professionally and my job a secret from Mark’s family to avoid exactly the kind of drama that was about to walk through that door.

The door opened suddenly without knocking.

Mrs. Sterling marched in. She was wearing a fur coat that smelled of mothballs and expensive perfume; her heels clicked aggressively on the tiled floor. She didn’t look at the babies. She didn’t look at me. She looked around the room.

“A VIP suite?” he scoffed, his voice squeaking. He kicked the leg of my bed as he passed, making me flinch as the movement rattled the incision. “Who do you think you are, Elena? The Queen of England? My son works himself to death at that firm, and this is how you spend his money? On silk pillows and room service?”

I took a shallow breath, clutching the edge of the bed. “Mom, Mark didn’t pay for this room. My insurance covered it.”

Mrs. Sterling let out a dry laugh. It was a harsh, ugly sound. She tossed her designer handbag onto the plush sofa, right on top of a stack of legal documents I’d been reviewing before the labor started.

“Are you sure?” she spat scornfully. “What insurance? Unemployment insurance? Don’t make me laugh, darling. A freeloader like you doesn’t get premium coverage. You barely contribute a penny to the household. You sit at home all day ‘advising’ on your laptop while Mark pays the mortgage, the bills, and now this monstrous hospital bill.”

“It’s fully covered,” I repeated, my voice strained. “You don’t need to worry about the cost.”

“I worry about everything!” she snapped. “Because it’s clear you have no concept of value. You think money grows on trees just because you married a lawyer. But let me tell you something, Elena. Mark’s patience is running out. And so is mine.”

Finally, he turned to look at the cribs. He didn’t coo. He didn’t smile. He observed them with a calculating, cold expression, like a butcher evaluating a cut of meat.

“Anyway,” she said, waving a manicured hand dismissively. “We’ll talk about your spending habits later. I’m here for something more important. The twins. You’re not planning on keeping both of them, are you?”

Chapter 2: The adoption papers

The air in the room seemed to disappear. I stared at her, thinking the painkillers were making me hallucinate.

“Excuse me?” I whispered.

Mrs. Sterling opened her bag and took out a thick, folded document. She slammed it on the nightstand, right next to my water pitcher.

“Sign here,” she said, tapping the paper with a long, red fingernail. “It’s a Parental Rights Waiver form. I asked my neighbor to write it up; he’s a notary, so it’s official.”

I looked at the paper. It was badly formatted, full of mistakes, and legally, a joke. But the intention was terrifyingly clear.

“What are you talking about?” My voice trembled. Not from fear, but from a burning rage that felt like lava in my veins. “These are my children. Both of them.”

“Don’t be selfish, Elena,” Mrs. Sterling spat. “You know Karen’s been crying all week. She’s been trying for five years. She’s infertile. It’s a tragedy. And here you are, giving birth to twins like a rabbit. It’s just not fair.”

Karen was Mark’s older sister. A woman who never liked me, mainly because I refused to kiss her ring. A woman who had married for money, but couldn’t buy a pregnancy.

“So you want me to… give you one?” I asked, incredulous. “Like it’s a spare kidney?”

“Specifically, the boy,” Mrs. Sterling said, walking toward Leo’s crib. “Karen always wanted a son. Her husband has a legacy to carry on. And let’s be honest, Elena. You’re unemployed. You’re lazy. How are you going to raise two newborns? You’ll be drowning in diapers and crying within a week. Karen already has a nanny lined up. She has a nursery that puts this one to shame. She can give him a real life. You should thank her for taking the weight off your shoulders.”

“A peso?” I sat up, ignoring the tearing sensation in my abdomen. “My son isn’t a peso. He’s my son. And Karen isn’t going to take him away. Get that paper out of my sight.”