Amiriah Pov
My mind raced at Lenna's whispered accusation. A child? How could she know? I had been so careful, taking every precaution to keep Lani hidden. There should be nothing in this world that could prove her existence to them—no records, no photos, nothing. Just my daughter, safely concealed behind darkness barriers and protective wolves.
Yet somehow Lenna had guessed. The twin connection between us had always been unnervingly strong, even after years of separation. Perhaps it wasn't evidence she had found, but intuition—that same invisible thread that had once allowed us to sense each other's thoughts and feelings.
It didn't matter how she knew. What mattered was that they were all watching me now, eyes filled with suspicion and fear, arrayed before me like judges ready to pass sentence. My barrier of darkness swirled between us, the only thing preventing them from charging up the stairs to where Lani lay sleeping, innocent and vulnerable.
"If you keep getting any closer, I swear that I'm going to kill you," I warned, my voice deadly calm despite the storm raging inside me. "Family or not."
Xavier stepped forward, his face hardening into the expression I remembered from childhood—the one that brooked no disobedience, no challenges to his authority. The face of the man who had signed the papers sending me to Greystone.
"You will bring whatever you are hiding down now," he commanded, "or else we will get it ourselves and kill whatever dangerous thing you're concealing."
Something inside me snapped at his words. Kill. He had said kill. The casual threat directed at what he didn't even know was his own grandchild ignited something primal and deadly within me. My darkness, usually controlled despite its power, began to release in waves, filling the foyer with writhing shadows that crawled up the walls and across the ceiling.
"No one will touch what is mine," I said, my voice dropping to a register I barely recognized. "None of you understand what I endured alone because you sent me to that place. And now you're demanding answers from me? Threatening what's mine?"
The temperature in the room plummeted as my darkness spread, fueled by years of suppressed rage and fear. Memories flashed through my mind—the hospital, the experiments, the guards, the violation of my body and mind. The terrifying night I gave birth to Lani alone, without help, without comfort, without anyone to tell me if what was happening was normal or if we would both die.
"You don't know," I continued, my voice breaking with emotion. "You don't know how painful it was, the things I went through alone, how scared I was. This thing you're so eager to destroy saved me in ways you can't comprehend, and now you want to take it from me?"
My darkness responded to my emotional state, forming jagged spikes that thrust outward toward the family. They all stepped back instinctively, except for Lenna, who stood her ground.
"Miri," she said softly, using our childhood name for me. "No one is going to take anything from you. I promise."
"Promises from this family mean nothing," I spat. "You promised to protect me once too. You all did."
Amara stepped forward then, tears streaming down her face. "Amiriah, please. We just want to understand. We want to help you."
"Help me?" The words came out as a bitter laugh. "Where was your help when I was being cut open? Where was your help when I was being used as a breeding experiment? Where was your help when I was giving birth alone, terrified, not knowing if my baby would live or die?"
The words escaped before I could stop them, and I realized too late what I had admitted. A collective gasp went through the family as the final confirmation of what Lenna had guessed.
"A baby," Amara whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. "You have a baby?"
The darkness around me faltered momentarily as panic replaced rage. I hadn't meant to reveal Lani's existence. Now they knew for certain, and there would be no going back.
"Not a baby anymore," I said finally, my voice hollow. "A child. My child. Mine alone."
"Our grandchild," Xavier said, his commanding tone softened by shock. "A Spellman."
"No," I countered immediately. "Not yours. Not a Spellman. My child doesn't belong to any of you. My baby is mine to protect, mine to raise. I've done it alone for this long; I don't need your help now."
"But you shouldn't have had to do it alone," Zuri said quietly. "No one should have to go through that alone."
"And yet I did," I replied, bitterness edging my words. "Because none of you were there. None of you looked for me. None of you questioned what that hospital told you."
The silence that followed was heavy with guilt and regret. I could see it in their faces—the dawning realization of all I had endured, all they had missed. A grandchild born in secrecy and fear. A niece or nephew they had never held. A cousin to Harrison who had spent her early life hidden away like something shameful.
"My child doesn't need anyone but me," I said, my voice breaking as sobs threatened to overwhelm me. The darkness around me pulsed with my anguish, shadows writhing across the walls like living things.
"YALL DON'T KNOW HOW PAINFUL IT WAS FINDING OUT I WAS PREGNANT AND ALONE," I screamed, my composure finally shattering completely. "HOW SCARED I WAS! THE PAINFUL BIRTH, HAVING TO DO IT ALONE, NOT KNOWING IF I WAS DOING IT RIGHT!"
My family stood frozen, shock etched across their faces as my raw pain filled the room. The darkness around me grew thicker, responding to my emotional state.
"NO ONE WAS THERE TO HELP ME! NO ONE WAS THERE TO TELL ME IF MY BABY WAS BREATHING RIGHT, IF THE CORD WAS CUT CORRECTLY, IF THE BLEEDING WAS NORMAL!" My voice cracked with the effort of forcing out words that had been bottled inside me for so long.
"I HAD TO FIGURE IT ALL OUT MYSELF! I HAD TO BE STRONG WHEN I WAS TERRIFIED! I HAD TO BE DOCTOR AND NURSE AND MOTHER ALL AT ONCE!"
Tears streamed down my face, but I couldn't stop now. The floodgates had opened, and years of suppressed trauma poured out in a torrent of words.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO HOLD YOUR NEWBORN CHILD AND BE AFRAID TO TOUCH THEM BECAUSE YOUR HANDS ARE SHAKING SO BADLY? TO BE SO SCARED THAT YOU'LL DROP THEM OR HURT THEM BECAUSE NO ONE SHOWED YOU HOW TO DO IT RIGHT?"
Amara had covered her mouth with her hands, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Even Xavier looked shaken, his usual stern composure crumbling in the face of my pain.
"I DIDN'T KNOW IF MY BABY WOULD LIVE OR DIE! I DIDN'T KNOW IF I WOULD LIVE OR DIE! AND WHERE WERE YOU?" I demanded, my voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "WHERE WERE ANY OF YOU?"
The silence that followed was deafening. No one moved, no one spoke, as if my words had frozen them all in place.
"My child doesn't know you," I continued, my voice raw from screaming. "My child has never felt a grandmother's hug or an uncle's laughter. My child has never played with cousins or felt the security of extended family. AND THAT'S ON YOU."
My darkness swirled around me, protective and threatening all at once. "You sent me to that place. You believed I was dead without question. You moved on with your lives while I suffered horrors you can't even imagine. And now you think you have some right to my child? To the one pure thing that came from all that pain?"
I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping through my tears. "My child has survived this long with just me. We've been each other's everything—parent, friend, protector, entire world. We don't need you now. We don't need anyone."
But even as I said the words, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps they weren't entirely true. That perhaps, in my effort to protect my child, I had also limited them. That perhaps, despite everything, family was something my child deserved to know.
But the pain and fear were still too raw, the memories too fresh. The thought of sharing my child with these people who had failed me so completely was almost unbearable.
"You don't get to walk in now and claim grandparent rights or aunt and uncle privileges," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You don't get to pretend the last years didn't happen. You don't get to play happy family after everything I've been through."
The darkness around me ebbed slightly, exhaustion beginning to replace the adrenaline of my outburst. "My child is all I have. The only person who has never hurt me, never abandoned me, never looked at me like I was broken or dangerous or crazy. And I will kill anyone who tries to take that away from me. Even you. Especially you."
The threat hung in the air, all the more terrifying for the absolute conviction behind it. This wasn't hysteria. This wasn't trauma talking. This was a mother's promise, as ancient and immutable as the darkness itself.
"Amiriah," Lenna said softly, breaking the silence that had fallen. "No one wants to take your child away from you. We just want to know them. To love them. To be part of their life, if you'll allow it."
"And if I don't?" I challenged, meeting her gaze.
"Then we respect that," she replied simply. "However much it might hurt us. Because that's what family should do—respect each other's boundaries. Something we failed to do for you before."
Her words, so unexpected, so contrary to what I had prepared myself to hear, left me momentarily speechless. I had been ready for demands, for threats, for the same controlling behavior that had defined my childhood. I wasn't prepared for this apparent surrender.
"I don't believe you," I said finally, suspicion coloring my tone. "This family has never respected boundaries. This family has never taken no for an answer."
"Then give us a chance to prove otherwise," Lenna urged. "On your terms, at your pace. Let us show you that we can be the family you and your child deserve."
I studied each of their faces in turn—Amara's tear-streaked but hopeful, Xavier's subdued and regretful, my siblings' varying expressions of shock and sorrow. Could they change? Could they become something different than the family I remembered? Something better?
I didn't know. But as the adrenaline of my outburst faded, leaving me drained and shaking, I realized I didn't have the energy to fight anymore—not tonight, at least.
"I need to go back to my child," I said finally, my voice hoarse from screaming but with a determined voice. "We'll... we'll talk about this tomorrow and no one better tell a soul about my child."
It wasn't agreement. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was something none of us had expected—a door left slightly ajar instead of slammed shut. A possibility, however remote, of a path forward.
As I turned away, climbing the stairs with weary steps, I heard Lenna whisper to the others: "Let her go. She needs her child right now."
And for the first time since returning to this house, I felt a flicker of something like gratitude toward my twin. Not for understanding, not for support, but simply for recognizing the one truth that mattered most in this moment:
I needed my child. And my child needed me. Everything else—family, reconciliation, the painful past and uncertain future—could wait until tomorrow.