My name is Emily Carr, and three months ago, I learned that becoming a mother wasn’t the hardest part of my life — trusting my own family was. I gave birth to my daughter, Ava, on a rainy Tuesday morning in Seattle. I expected joy, congratulations, maybe even tears of happiness. Instead, I woke up from anesthesia to find my mother, Linda Carr, standing at the corner of the hospital room with a stiff smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

At first, I blamed the painkillers for the strange tension in the air. But when the nurse asked if I approved the “temporary custody transfer,” I felt my entire body turn cold. “What transfer?” I asked. The nurse glanced between my mother and me, confused. That’s when Linda stepped forward and said, “Sweetheart, it’s for the best. Just for a few months, until after Chloe’s wedding. You’ll thank me later.”