My twelve-year-old daughter came home from her father’s baby shower so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open.

Becca agreed to meet me at a neutral coffee shop three miles from their subdivision on Monday afternoon, after June was safely at school and after my initial consultation with Brenda.

When Becca walked through the door of the cafe, she looked every bit the picture of suburban domestic bliss: eight months pregnant, dressed in a tasteful pastel knit sweater, her blonde hair curled into soft waves. But beneath the polished veneer, her face was tight, her eyes darting nervously toward the entrance as if she half-expected Scott to burst through the glass.

She sat down across from me at the small wooden table, placing her designer leather purse carefully on the chair beside her.

"Scott doesn't know I'm here, Holly," she said, her voice strained. "He explicitly told me not to speak to you. He thinks you're on a warpath because you’re jealous of the new baby."

I didn't take the bait. I slid a printout across the table.

It was a screenshot of Tara Mills’s message, along with the text confirmation from Danielle Ortega and the itemized calculations of the $290 collected at the baby shower. Beside it was an affidavit draft Brenda had prepared, outlining the November incident where June was abandoned until one in the morning without a phone.

Becca looked down at the papers. Her eyes flickered, but her expression didn't show shock. It showed weariness.

"I didn't set up the CashApp link, Holly," she said quietly, looking down at her manicured nails. "Scott handled the digital invitations."

"You were in the house, Becca," I countered, keeping my voice low and direct. "You were upstairs drinking mocktails while my twelve-year-old was in your basement changing diapers and wiping vomit. You knew six toddlers were downstairs. Did you think they were down there by themselves?"

"Scott told me June wanted to help!" Becca’s voice hitched, a defensive snap cutting through her soft-spoken exterior. "He said she offered! He said she wanted to feel important, that she was insecure about the baby taking her place and this would make her feel like she had a vital role in our family!"

"And what about the money, Becca? Did she ‘offer’ to let your husband keep three hundred dollars of her earnings?"

Becca flinched. She looked away, staring out the window at the parking lot. "Things have been tight, okay? Scott’s commission at the firm was restructured in September. We had to pay for the private nursery deposit, and the hospital delivery fees aren't fully covered by his insurance. Scott said the shower childcare was a win-win. Our friends got free-range social time without hiring individual sitters, and we covered our catering deficit."

"You paid for your baby shower catering with my daughter's labor," I said, the words falling like lead stones between us.

"She is his daughter too!" Becca hissed, leaning forward, the mask slipping completely. "You act like Scott is some monster! He pays you twelve hundred dollars a month in child support! Twelve hundred dollars, Holly! Do you know what that does to our monthly overhead? We can barely afford our mortgage, and you're living comfortably in your paid-off townhouse while we struggle to prepare for our child!"

"The child support Scott pays is for June’s food, clothing, healthcare, and education," I retorted, anger blazing behind my ribs. "It is not a retainer fee that gives him the right to rent her out like an indentured servant to balance your lifestyle choices!"

"She watched kids for five hours!" Becca snapped, her voice drawing glances from the barista behind the counter. "My mother watched four siblings when she was ten! Generations of women took care of younger kids without crying to a lawyer! You're coddling her! You're turning her into a delicate little princess who thinks she doesn't have to contribute to the world!"

"She is twelve years old, Becca. And what you and Scott did on October 14th—leaving her in a strange house until one in the morning, taking away her phone so she couldn't call her mother while an infant was throwing up—that isn't ‘contributing to the family.’ That is child endangerment."

Becca’s face lost all its color. "He told me he checked on her every hour."

"He didn't check on her. He left his phone on silent, drank wine, and June was terrified." I pulled the papers back toward me and placed them neatly in my folder. "I came here today hoping you were just oblivious. I thought maybe Scott was lying to you the same way he lies to everyone else. But you knew. You benefited from it, and you justified it because you think June owes you."

"Holly, wait," Becca stammered, realizing she had revealed too much. Her hands hovered over the table. "Don't do this. Scott’s firm does background checks for his licensing renewal next month. If you file something in family court, if this becomes public—"

"Scott made his choices when he printed QR codes to sell our child’s Saturday afternoon," I said, standing up and pulling my coat around my shoulders. "Tell him he'll be served by Wednesday."

"You're destroying our family!" Becca cried out, tears finally spilling over her mascara. "We're having a baby in six weeks!"