Chapter 7
In the interrogation recording pictures:
Officer Whitesmith sat in the cold interrogation room, her gaze cutting like a knife toward my mother across the
table.
“Mrs. Donovan,” she began, her voice tight with suppressed fury, “DNA verification has confirmed that you are Daphne’s biological mother. What kind of monster could beat their own child to near death?”
My mother just smiled coldly, that smile as hollow as if her soul had been scooped out.
Officer Whitesmith slammed her palm on the cold metal table.
“You don’t deserve to be called a mother!” she roared. “If you didn’t want her, there were countless options–adoption, foster care, anything would be better than your torture! What’s wrong with you?”
My mother’s expression suddenly changed. For that instant, she actually looked like she might break down.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “God knows how completely I’ve failed as a mother. That child… she’d be better off never being born.”
Then she pulled out that old trick I knew all too well-
She motioned for Whitesmith to come closer.
I knew what would happen next.
Mom took out her phone, fingers flying across the screen, then held up the display.
I watched Whitesmith face the pictures, her expression instantly transforming–first confusion, then shock, pupils lilating suddenly, mouth slightly agape.
After the pictures ended, the interrogation room fell deathly silent. I could even hear the faint buzzing of the luorescent lights overhead.
Whitesmith finally stepped forward and unlocked my mother’s handcuffs. “Mrs. Donovan, you’re free to go. There will be no charges.”
Watching this scene, I felt no shock, no hysteria, just an odd calm.
A week later, Officer Whitesmith came to see me again.
She couldn’t even look me in the eye, just hung her shoulders, all that righteous confidence and determination. completely drained.
02:40
Estel photos: MOUN
Chapter 7
I just smiled weakly, “It’s okay, I understand.”
I really did understand.
This outcome, like the changing seasons, had been predetermined.
A month later, my wounds had mostly healed.
I was discharged with a bottle of painkillers and a useless part–time job referral flyer. That was all I got after this torturous nightmare concluded.
When I pushed open the front door, I saw my parents sitting on the couch. Dad was smiling, gently stroking Mom’s swollen belly.
My gaze fell on her slightly protruding stomach, reality stabbing into my heart like a blade.
“Mom. You’re pregnant?”
She gave me a cold glance, her eyes as frigid as Arctic glaciers.
“Get out!”
Then she stared blankly at her own belly, as if I had become invisible.
Dad shot me a warning glare, his jaw tight.
“Behave yourself,” he threatened. “If you cause trouble in front of your unborn sister, I don’t mind letting what happened a few days ago repeat itself.”
Then he immediately turned back, speaking tenderly to Mom, playing the perfect husband.
But Mom’s face showed no trace of joy.
Watching this twisted scene, I finally couldn’t help myself:
‘Dad, how do you know Mom is definitely carrying a daughter?”
Dad frowned, “Daughters are daddy’s princesses. I just prefer girls.”
The conversation ended there. He turned to Mom, whispering about how my sister’s arrival would be perfect.
The favoritism was obvious–my father was thrilled beyond measure.
Over the following weeks, he hired multiple caregivers, providing extreme care and strict protection for the so–called “high–risk elderly pregnant woman.”
Mom never laid a hand on me again, but whenever our eyes met, she would coldly order me to “get out.”
03:40
and the Would Cheered?
63.3
Chapter 7
Dad was equally cold. “Know your place, stay away,” he warned. “Don’t cause trouble.”
No need to say it twice. The next day, I packed my essentials and left.
I rented a cheap studio in the remote outskirts of the city and began piecing together an independent life.
Three months later, news came: Mom had fallen down the stairs and miscarried.
Despite everything, she was still my mother, so I rushed back.
My sisters had arrived before me. They stood by Mom’s bedside, lingering.
Mom lay in bed, her eyes vacant and unfocused.
“Mom, how could you be so careless?” Alice sobbed, looking worriedly at the bandage on Mom’s forehead.
Bella said nothing, but her eyes were full of concern.
I stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure what role I should play.
Mother stared blankly into space, time seeming frozen.
Until her gaze fell on me, and the emptiness was instantly replaced by icy hatred.
“Get out!” she shrieked, weakly pointing at me.
Fatal photos: My Mom Tried to Kill Me, and the World Cheered?
