Daphne’s POV
The call comes from the police department.
The officer on the line is professional, direct, explaining that the threatening notes about Nina and Lisa constitute criminal activity under state law—harassment, terroristic threats against minors.
With Maya's confession to Archie and the evidence we can provide, they have enough to move forward with charges.
"We'd like your permission to proceed with prosecution," the officer says. "Given the nature of the threats and the victims' ages, the district attorney is prepared to pursue this aggressively."
My first instinct is immediate, visceral. "Yes. Absolutely. Make her pay."
"Mrs. Hale, I need to be clear about what this means. There will be media attention. A trial would be public. The defendant's defense team will likely…"
"I don't care." My hand grips the phone tighter. "She terrorized my children. She sent those notes while I was pregnant, made me afraid in my own home. I want her prosecuted to the fullest extent possible."
"I understand. Let me speak with your husband as well, and we'll…"
"No need to speak with me separately." Xander's voice comes from the doorway. I didn't hear him approach. "We're not filing charges."
I spin to face him. "What?"
"Officer, thank you for calling. We appreciate the police department's diligence, but we've decided not to pursue criminal charges at this time. We'll handle this matter privately."
"Mr. Hale, I want to make sure you understand…"
"I understand completely. Thank you for your time." Xander ends the call before I can protest.
"What the hell, Xander?" I'm on my feet, anger flooding hot through my veins. "She threatened our children, she terrorized me while I was pregnant. And you're just—what, letting her walk away?"
"No." His voice is calm, maddeningly calm. "I'm choosing not to destroy our family in the process of getting justice."
"How does prosecuting her destroy us?"
"Media attention, press coverage. Every detail of our lives exposed in court documents. Maya's lawyers digging into everything—our finances, our marriage, our fitness as parents. "
Xander ticks off points on his fingers.
"They'll use Hope's condition against us. Argue that the stress of the trial could harm her medical care. Question whether we're prioritizing revenge over our daughter's wellbeing."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it? Because Eleanor will be right there, feeding information to Maya's defense team, providing ammunition. Every mistake we've made, every moment of struggle—it'll all become public record. And Hope…"
His voice softens. "Hope needs privacy right now. Needs us focused on her care, not managing a media circus around a public trial."
The logic of it settles over me like cold water. I hate that he's right. Hate that Maya gets to escape consequences because prosecuting her would hurt us more than it would hurt her.
"So she just gets away with it?" My voice breaks. "After everything she did?"
"No." Xander crosses to me, takes my hands. "We'll handle this our own way when Hope is stable, when we have the resources to deal with it properly. But not through public channels. Not in a way that exposes our family when we're this vulnerable."
I want to argue. Want to insist that justice matters more than public perception. But I think about Hope's medication schedule, the doctor's appointments, the constant monitoring.
Think about Nina and Lisa trying to understand why their sister needs so much attention. Think about reporters at our gate, camera crews following us to cardiology appointments, Maya's lawyers questioning whether I'm a fit mother because I was terrified during a high-risk pregnancy.
"I hate this," I whisper.
"I know." Xander pulls me close. "So do I."
That afternoon, we sit the twins down. They're on the couch, Nina bouncing slightly with nervous energy, Lisa still and watchful.
I can see them bracing for bad news—they've learned that when both parents sit them down seriously, something's wrong.
"Maya had to go away," Xander starts, his voice gentle. "She's not going to be working for our family anymore."
Nina's face crumples immediately. "Why? Did we do something wrong? Did I talk too much or…"
"No, sweetheart." I pull her close. "This has nothing to do with you or Lisa. Maya made some choices that weren't okay, and she can't stay with us anymore."
"What kind of choices?" Lisa's voice is characteristically direct.
Xander and I exchange a glance. How do you explain betrayal to five-year-olds? How do you tell them that someone they trusted was lying the entire time?
"She wasn't honest with us," Xander says carefully. "About who she was and why she was here. And when people aren't honest, especially about important things, we can't keep them in our family."
"Is she coming back?" Lisa asks.
"No." I keep my voice steady. "Maya won't be coming back."
"Did she do something bad?" Nina's voice is small, scared.
"Yes," Xander says, because lying won't help them. "She did something that hurt our family. But it's not your fault, and she's gone now. You're safe."
Nina starts crying in earnest then—big, gulping sobs that shake her whole body. Lisa doesn't cry, just sits very still.
We hold them. Let Nina cry it out while Lisa processes in her own way. Answer their questions as honestly as we can without giving them nightmares.
Promise that we're not going anywhere, that they're safe, that our family is still whole even if Maya's not part of it anymore.
The rest of the day becomes a blur of crisis management. Hope's noon medication. Nina's tears every time she sees something that reminds her of Maya.
Lisa's increasingly frantic counting, her need for order when everything feels chaotic. Doctor's appointment to check Hope's progress—stable, the cardiologist says, but still requiring careful monitoring.
Feeding times, breathing checks. Nina asking again why Maya left, Lisa creating a new chart to track Hope's medication schedule, needing the structure of data when emotions feel too big.
This is our new normal, I realize somewhere around dinner. Crisis layered on crisis, managing one emergency while another simmers, surviving moment to moment because that's all we can handle.
That evening, after all three girls are finally asleep—Nina exhausted from crying, Lisa from counting, Hope from the constant effort of breathing—Xander and I collapse onto the living room couch. He pours wine.
We sit in silence for a long moment.
"We need to discuss Hope's cardiology appointment next week."
Xander says finally, and I'm grateful he's starting with logistics instead of emotions.
"Dr. Chen wants to adjust her medication dosing. And she mentioned we should consider hiring a night nurse. Someone trained in pediatric cardiac care who can handle the midnight feedings so we can actually sleep."
"That feels like admitting defeat," I say quietly.
"It's admitting we're human, that we can't be awake every six hours indefinitely without breaking."
We talk about practical things. Medication adjustments. Night nurse candidates. Whether we should install a better monitor system in Hope's room. Normal things that feel impossible because nothing about our life is normal anymore.
Xander sets down his wine glass and pulls me close. I curl into his side, head on his shoulder, letting myself be held. His arm comes around me, solid and warm and steady.
"Maya's betrayal hurts," I say into his chest.
"I know."
"But this," I gesture vaguely, meaning us, meaning our unity, meaning the way we've faced everything together since Hope's diagnosis. "This feels unbreakable."
Xander's arm tightens around me. "It is."
I close my eyes and let myself believe it. Maya's gone, but we're still here. Still whole. Still fighting for our daughter together instead of fighting each other.
The path ahead is still terrifying—Hope's surgeries, her uncertain future, all the medical battles we'll face. But we'll face them together. United in purpose, in love, in the stubborn determination to survive whatever comes next.
That's enough. For tonight, it's enough.