Chapter 1 - THE YELLOW NOTEBOOK
Shawna’s hand hit Keely’s shoulder before I was close enough to stop her.
My daughter flew backward into the wooden dining chair beside the barbecue table.
The chair legs screamed across the concrete patio.
Keely’s back struck the slats.
Then the chair twisted.
She slipped sideways and landed hard on the ground.
“Keely!”
I dropped my purse and ran.
Shawna did not kneel.
Did not apologize.
Did not even look startled.
She pointed toward a paper plate sitting beside Keely.
On it was a hamburger so badly burned that the meat had cracked black around the edges.
“Eat the ashes.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
I reached Keely and pulled her upright.
“Baby, look at me.”
Her face was wet.
Her knees were dusty.
Her hands shook against my arms.
“Did you hit your head?”
She shook her head.
“My back hurts.”
“Can you stand?”
“Yes.”
Then her eyes moved toward the barbecue table.
That was when I noticed.
Every other child at Shawna’s backyard party had food.
Burgers.
Hot dogs.
Watermelon.
Corn.
Potato salad.
Cupcakes.
One boy was halfway through his second plate.
Keely had one burned hamburger.
Nothing else.
I looked at my mother-in-law.
“What happened?”
Shawna lifted one shoulder.
“She was being difficult.”
“What does that mean?”
“She needs discipline.”
“For what?”
Keely suddenly pressed her face into me.
My daughter was five.
She should have been complaining about scraped knees.
Instead she whispered:
“Mom... I haven’t eaten for two days.”
My body went cold.
I leaned back.
“What?”
Keely cried harder.
“Grandma said I have to learn.”
I stared at Shawna.
Two days.
I had dropped Keely off Friday afternoon because I had a two-day hotel-design conference in Denver.
Shawna had volunteered to keep her.
She had sent photographs.
Keely playing in the sprinkler.
Keely coloring.
Keely sleeping on the guest bed.
I had called twice.
Shawna told me Keely had eaten dinner.
Pancakes.
Chicken.
Fruit.
Lies.
“What did she eat?” I demanded.
Shawna smiled.
“She ate when she earned it.”
My ears rang.
“What did you feed my child?”
“She had water.”
“Food.”
“She had opportunities.”
I stood.
Keely stayed wrapped around my waist.
“What food?”
Shawna’s smile disappeared.
“I don’t answer to you.”
Around us, the party had gone quiet.
Relatives looked down.
Family friends stared toward the lawn.
No one spoke.
That silence told me some of them knew something.
Maybe not two days.
Enough.
“Keely,” I said gently, “did Grandma give you breakfast today?”
She shook her head.
“Yesterday?”
Another shake.
“Anything?”
“A cracker.”
My stomach turned.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
Shawna snapped:
“She is exaggerating.”
I looked at her.
My vision narrowed.
“What did you just say?”
“Children manipulate.”
“She’s five.”
“That is when you teach them.”
“Teach them what?”
Shawna folded her arms.
“Starvation breeds gratitude.”
The words landed so cleanly that for one second I could not process them.
Then I saw the burned hamburger again.
The black meat.
The untouched food around everyone else.
My hand moved before my judgment caught up.
I grabbed the plate.
Shawna’s eyes widened.
I hurled it.
The paper plate slapped across her face.
Burned meat and grease burst across her blouse.
She stumbled backward.
Her heel caught in the grass.
She fell.
Gasps spread around the yard.
I stepped toward her.
“How could anyone do that to a five-year-old child?”
Shawna wiped grease from her cheek.
“You psycho.”
“No.”
My hands were shaking.
“You do not get to say another word until I know exactly what you did to her.”
A man near the grill raised his phone.
Recording.
Good.
Let him.
Keely tugged my blouse.
“Mom?”
I turned immediately.
“Yes?”
“Grandma wrote it down.”
“What?”
“Every time I asked for food.”
I froze.
“Where?”
She pointed toward the house.
Through the kitchen window I saw Shawna’s purse sitting beside the counter.
Next to it:
a yellow notebook.
Open.
I carried Keely inside.
Shawna shouted behind me:
“Do not touch my things!”
I ignored her.
The notebook page contained dates.
Friday.
Saturday.
Sunday.
Beside them:
8:15 — asked for cereal.
10:40 — complained hungry.
12:05 — asked if Mommy knows.
3:20 — cried.
6:10 — refused lesson.
My daughter’s hunger had been documented.
Not accidental.
Not neglect through forgetfulness.
Measured.
At the bottom of the page:
BLAIRE STILL HASN’T CALLED BACK ABOUT THE ELECTION.
I stared.
Election?
Underneath:
If she signs before Monday, Keely can resume normal privileges.
My blood went cold.
Keely had not been denied food because of anything she did.
May you like
Someone had been starving my daughter to make me sign something.
And I had no idea what.
