My Mother Stole My Babies for Luck,And Framed Me for Murder

At the mention of evidence, Captain Fletcher and the others turned back.

My mom jolted as if struck by lightning. She practically lunged at him, grabbing his arm.

"Officer! Don't listen to her nonsense! She's lost her mind! My daughter just lost her baby—she's in shock, she's not thinking straight! You can't believe a word she says!"

As she spoke, she shoved me back onto the bed, her fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

"Meryl! Lie down! Stop talking! I'm begging you—stop embarrassing yourself!"

"Let go of me!"

I wrenched free of her grip with a strength that surprised even me.

"The baby didn't die by accident. He was poisoned before he was even born."

The room went silent. Inside the ward and out in the hallway—not a single sound.

Then my mom let out an even more piercing wail:

"Poisoned?! How is that possible! How can a baby still in the womb be poisoned!"

The doctor nodded slightly and explained, "From a medical standpoint, if the mother shows no signs of poisoning, the probability of a fetus absorbing toxins through the placenta is extremely low. And typically, there would be obvious warning signs in the mother's condition first."

"This patient had all her prenatal checkups with us. Every indicator was normal. It's... highly unlikely."

Doubt flickered across Captain Fletcher's face.

"You don't believe me? Fine. Then do an autopsy!"

The moment those words left my mouth, my mom panicked. She shrieked, "Meryl, stop this! The baby suffered enough already! And now you want them to cut him open?"

"Do you want your own child to be mutilated even in death?!"

Captain Fletcher frowned and asked, "Ms. Fox, what makes you suspect this?"

I tugged at the corner of my mouth, my gaze sliding toward my mom.

"Fine. I'll tell you. The first suspicious thing."

"My due date was supposed to be after the New Year. But my mother insisted that babies born on New Year's Eve are blessed with fortune—destined for wealth and greatness. She threatened to kill herself if I didn't agree to an early C-section on New Year's Eve."

"Why did it have to be New Year's Eve? Once could be coincidence. But twice? Three times? Four?"

"Every single one of my babies died on New Year's Eve! Every single time, she was the one who pushed for it—who arranged everything—who made sure I gave birth at that exact moment! How is that not suspicious?!"

Tears spilled down my mom's face again. Her voice dripped with wounded innocence:

"Who do you think I did this for?! Everything I've done has been for you! For the baby! Everyone knows children born on New Year's Eve are blessed—it's been said for generations! I just wanted my grandchild to have a good life. Is that a crime?!"

"Meryl, has your heart turned to stone?! How can you twist your mother's love into poison—into a murder weapon?!"

She beat her chest, sobbing so hard she nearly collapsed.

The murmuring around us swelled again.

To most people, an old woman's superstitious beliefs—however stubborn—came from a place of love.

Captain Fletcher seemed swayed by this reasoning.

He shook his head, a note of resignation in his voice. "Ms. Fox, your mother's actions may be rooted in superstition, but that hardly constitutes a motive for murder."

I had expected him to say that. A bitter smile crossed my face.

"Is that so?"

"Then let me give you my second piece of evidence."

This time, I turned to Arnold.

"This pregnancy was never my choice."

"Arnold forced himself on me one night in May. That's how this baby was conceived."

Captain Fletcher's frown deepened.