As I scrolled further, my heart twisted so tight it felt like it was being ripped apart, the pain cutting deep.
Whenever I carried a child, they were only discussing how to destroy it.
Even the accident a year ago, when I was pregnant, it was Cynthia who drove the car. She said she wanted the thrill of striking someone, and Javon, smiling, had agreed.
He offered only one careless warning. “Go easy.”
They spoke with ease about wounding me, about killing my children, as if it were no different from discussing the weather.
My nails dug deep into my palm until blood seeped out in drops.
I opened the photo album, tens of thousands of pictures, every one of them filled with Cynthia. Selfies, stolen shots, scenes of them waking up together, walking together, going home together… even Javon, carefully preparing meals for her while she was pregnant.
Then came the 99+ recorded videos. The moment I switched, it was like a basin of ice water poured over my head, chilling me to the marrow.
Endless clips of their bare bodies entwined, as if they had made it a point to capture every single encounter.
They even role-played, Javon, dressed in a maid's outfit, kneeling before her.