A fragile sense of calm had settled over Hailey Wilson's apartment in the days leading up to the Guardian ad Litem's home visit. She had poured every ounce of her energy into preparing. The floors gleamed, toys were arranged with geometric precision, and Penelope cooed contentedly from her crib, freshly bathed and swaddled in soft cotton. There was nervousness, of course—a knot twisting in her stomach—but beneath it, something steadier: hope. A small, trembling hope that if she showed them the truth, they would see it.
That evening, a quiet knock came at the door. Hailey opened it cautiously to find a gift basket resting on the welcome mat. Inside were artisanal teas, a bundle of delicate pastries, and a small, soft plush lamb. A folded note was nestled on top. She unfolded it with shaking hands.
No more fighting. For Penny's sake. — B.
Her breath caught. Brittany.
Suspicion rose instantly. A peace offering? From Brittany? It smelled like strategy. She stared at the basket, heart pounding, and nearly tossed the whole thing out. But fatigue won out. The seal on the tea appeared intact. Maybe—just maybe—Brittany was finally giving up. Maybe this was her version of surrender.
Hailey boiled water and dropped the tea bag into her favorite mug. The scent of chamomile filled the kitchen, warm and familiar. But the taste was strange. Bitter. Earthy. Not quite right. She wrinkled her nose and kept drinking anyway, blaming her frayed nerves, the anticipation, the thousand worries swimming through her chest. When the last drop was gone, she told herself it had helped. She needed rest for tomorrow.
But the next morning, the world tilted.
Hailey woke in a sheen of sweat. Her nightgown clung to her skin, and her mouth was dry as paper. Her limbs felt like anchors. Each thought slipped from her grasp, hazy and slow, as though her brain were underwater. When she tried to stand, the room lurched sideways. She caught herself on the dresser, blinking against the spin.
It had to be anxiety. That had to be it.
Driven by sheer will and the anchoring weight of her daughter's needs, Hailey pushed through. She dressed in the carefully chosen blouse and slacks she'd laid out the night before, pinned her hair back, and picked up Penelope. The baby nestled into her shoulder, her warm breath grounding Hailey's whirling senses.
At exactly ten o'clock, the doorbell rang. The Guardian ad Litem, Ms. Elaine Tarker, stood in the hallway. Late fifties. Crisp posture. Wire-rimmed glasses. Her smile was polite but unreadable. Hailey welcomed her in with practiced warmth, her vision already swimming.
The visit began like a performance Hailey had rehearsed for weeks—but the lines vanished from her mind one by one.
Her speech came slow and thick. She forgot Penny's last feeding time, confused dates, lost track of her own words. Her gaze refused to settle. Her hands trembled as she tried to hold the paperwork. Penelope started to cry, her wails sharp and unrelenting. Hailey tried to soothe her, but the baby writhed in her arms, picking up on her mother's rising panic.
She tripped over a toy on the floor and nearly fell. A bottle slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. When Ms. Tarker asked for medical records, Hailey gave her the wrong folder. She tried to correct it but fumbled again, nearly dropping everything.
The GAL's pen moved swiftly across her notepad. Her questions became pointed, her tone colder.
"Have you been drinking this morning, Ms. Wilson?"
Hailey froze. "No. I—I don't drink. I swear I didn't…"
"You seem disoriented. I'm concerned about your coherence. And your ability to care for your child today."
Panic surged, but the words wouldn't come. Her thoughts were molasses, her mouth lead. The harder she tried to explain, the more she unraveled.
The visit ended abruptly. Ms. Tarker stood, thanked her, and left with a clipped nod. The door clicked shut behind her, the finality of it ringing in the sudden silence. Hailey collapsed onto the couch, clutching Penelope as the baby wailed in confusion and fear. She didn't know exactly what had happened—but she knew who had caused it.
Minutes later, Annie arrived. She had come to be there for the final part of the visit but found instead a scene of collapse. Hailey was pale and shaking, her voice weak, her pupils too wide. Penelope's cries filled the apartment like a siren.
"What happened?" Annie demanded, rushing to her side. "You look—Hailey, you look awful."
She didn't wait for an answer. She helped Hailey into a coat and drove her straight to the emergency room.
At the hospital, tests were run. Hours passed. Then came the report: Hailey's blood alcohol content was high. Alarmingly high.
"No," she whispered. "It's wrong. I didn't drink. I haven't had anything except that tea…"
Liam and Maya arrived. Their faces were grim. Hailey repeated herself again and again, desperate to be believed. "The basket. It was from Brittany. The tea tasted wrong. Please believe me."
Liam's voice was steel. "She spiked it. We just need to prove it."
Maya was already speaking to the medical team. "We need tox screens. Look for sedatives, anything that could mimic intoxication."
But the legal system moves fast when it senses a child at risk.
That evening, two CPS workers arrived at the hospital, accompanied by a supervisor. They explained, gently, that Penelope would be placed in emergency protective custody until the investigation was complete. It was protocol. There was nothing personal.
"She'll be safe," the supervisor promised. "She's not going to any relative at this time. Just a temporary, licensed placement."
Hailey stood motionless as they reached for her baby. Then something inside her broke.
"No!" she screamed, a sound torn from some ancient place inside her. "You can't take her. You can't—!"
Maggie held her back as the CPS team left with Penelope, her cries fading down the hallway. Annie turned away, sobbing.
The nursery felt cavernous without her. Hailey sat on the edge of the rocking chair, Penny's blanket bunched in her lap, her hands shaking. The scent of her daughter still clung to the soft fabric. The room was too quiet. Too still.
Her phone buzzed once. Unknown number.
She hesitated. Then answered.
"Now we can talk about custody," Brittany's voice whispered. And then, silence.
Hailey didn't cry.
She stared at the wall, her jaw clenched, her eyes dry and burning.
She wasn't broken.
She wasn't beaten.
But Brittany had drawn blood.
And Hailey had just decided—that was a mistake.