Chapter 9 - Grant Tried to Make Me Look Unfit
The second phone was not Grant’s current phone.
Investigators confirmed that within hours.
It was an old company device deactivated four months earlier.
Grant claimed he had given it to my father during an insurance review.
That explanation was possible.
Dad sometimes used spare devices when troubleshooting work systems.
But the phone was locked.
A forensic request would take time.
Grant’s attorney suddenly appeared.
That told me more than Grant’s explanations did.
By Monday, I received notice that someone had contacted county child services with concerns about my ability to care for Noah and Wyatt.
I read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
Allegations:
Unstable housing.
Severe emotional distress.
Financial uncertainty.
Possible inappropriate exposure of children to legal conflict.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
Rebecca read it.
“Anonymous report?”
“Apparently.”
“We cooperate.”
“I know who did it.”
“Maybe.”
“Grant.”
“Do not assume.”
I hated that she kept saying that.
I also knew she was right.
Facts.
Always facts.
A caseworker named Dana Ellis came Tuesday.
I was terrified.
Not because I had done anything wrong.
Because people who love children are often most afraid of systems that can decide where those children live.
Dana was calm.
She inspected bedrooms.
Food.
School arrangements.
Medical follow-up.
The boys’ therapy referrals.
My background check.
She interviewed me.
Then the twins separately.
After two hours, she sat at the kitchen table.
“I see no immediate safety issue.”
My lungs worked again.
“Does that mean this is over?”
“No.”
Of course not.
“We document.”
“What was the specific complaint?”
She could not disclose everything.
But she told me enough.
The caller said I intended to use the boys’ inheritance for myself.
That I had dropped out of school.
That I was unemployed.
That I suffered from “episodes” after the crash.
Every allegation contained just enough truth nearby to sound plausible.
I had taken leave from work.
I had paused one course.
I cried.
I was grieving.
Someone had weaponized ordinary trauma.
Dana asked:
“Does anyone have a reason to oppose you becoming guardian?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“My former fiancé.”
I showed her the texts.
It’s them or me.
She read them.
Her face did not change.
Professional.
“What is his name?”
“Grant Holloway.”
Her pen stopped.
Tiny movement.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Then?”
She looked at another page.
“The anonymous report mentioned him as a stable adult willing to assist if you were not appointed.”
I stared.
“He put himself in the report?”
“His name appears.”
My skin went cold.
“What exactly does it say?”
She could not give me the full document.
But she summarized.
The caller suggested that if I became “emotionally unable” to care for the boys, Grant could help coordinate placement and estate management.
Estate management.
Not parenting.
Not school.
Not comfort.
Money.
Always money.
I called Rebecca immediately after Dana left.
“This is him.”
“We investigate.”
“How?”
“Court discovery if he enters the guardianship case.”
“He won’t.”
“He may.”
He did.
Two days later, Grant filed a statement.
Not requesting custody.
That would have looked absurd.
Instead, he requested appointment as an “interested family-affiliated financial adviser” to protect the minors’ assets during guardianship review.
Rebecca stared at the filing.
“He has nerve.”
“What does it mean?”
“He wants standing.”
“In English.”
“He wants the court to treat him as someone entitled to receive information and object to decisions.”
“Can he get it?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Grant attached a declaration.
He wrote that he had been deeply involved with my family for six years.
True.
He wrote that my parents trusted him with financial discussions.
Partly true.
He wrote that they had discussed my emotional impulsiveness.
False.
He wrote that I had recently made “unstable accusations” against him.
True, from his perspective.
Then he attached photographs.
Me crying on the porch.
Me asleep at the kitchen table beside paperwork.
Me shouting at him in the driveway after my parents’ funeral.
I stared.
“Who took these?”
Some were from his phone.
One was from the house security camera.
The system he had remotely accessed.
“He’s building a story.”
Rebecca nodded.
“He wants to frame grief as incapacity.”
My hands shook.
“What if the judge believes him?”
“Then we give the judge evidence.”
“What evidence says I’m stable?”
“Your life.”
That sounded nice.
It did not calm me.
The night before the preliminary guardianship hearing, I could not sleep.
At midnight, I found Noah in the hallway.
“Bad dream?”
He nodded.
I carried him downstairs.
We sat on Dad’s recliner together.
He was getting too big to fit comfortably.
Neither of us cared.
“Are they taking us tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Grant said maybe judge does.”
I stiffened.
“When did Grant say that?”
“Phone.”
“What phone?”
Noah looked guilty.
“Wyatt has one.”
I stared.
“What?”
He climbed down.
Went upstairs.
Returned with a small black phone.
Not mine.
Not Dad’s.
Not Mom’s.
“Where did you get this?”
“Grant gave it to Wyatt.”
“When?”
“After hospital.”
My blood went cold.
“Why?”
“Said emergencies.”
The phone was powered off.
I called Rebecca.
Then I turned it on.
No passcode.
Three contacts.
Grant.
Elaine.
Emergency.
Messages had been deleted.
But one notification remained.
A cloud backup failed.
Rebecca arrived thirty minutes later.
She connected the phone to her laptop but did not alter anything.
“We need proper extraction.”
Then Noah whispered:
“He called yesterday.”
I looked at him.
“What did he say?”
“That if you keep being mad, judge might find better house for us.”
I closed my eyes.
That was not comfort.
That was manipulation.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I want you.”
My heart broke.
“And?”
“He asked if you cry a lot.”
Rebecca looked furious.
“What else?”
“He asked if you yell.”
“Did you answer?”
“I said only when sad.”
He touched my face.
“Sorry.”
I hugged him.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
The next morning, Rebecca brought the phone to court as potential evidence.
Grant arrived in a navy suit.
The same kind he wore to wedding venue meetings.
Polished.
Calm.
He looked at me across the hallway.
Then smiled sadly, like I was the one destroying something beautiful.
His lawyer approached Rebecca.
They spoke quietly.
Then Rebecca’s expression changed.
“What?”
I asked.
She handed me a newly filed document.
Grant had produced an affidavit allegedly signed by my mother.
Dated six weeks before the crash.
It said Mom had concerns about my emotional maturity and did not want me raising the boys alone.
I stared at her signature.
Perfect.
Almost too perfect.
Then I saw the witness line.
The affidavit had supposedly been witnessed by a notary.
A name I recognized immediately.
Elaine Holloway.
Grant’s mother.
And before Rebecca could say anything, the courtroom door opened.
Elaine herself walked out.
She looked at Grant.
Then at me.
May you like
And whispered:
“Natalie, that document is a lie.”
