The Night It All Fell Apart

I woke at 2:17 a.m., a wet warmth between my legs jolting me from sleep. At 26 weeks pregnant, I thought it might be a humiliating but common side effect of pregnancy. Then I flicked on the bedside lamp and pulled back the covers. My heart stopped. Blood—too much blood. The cramps hit seconds later, sharp and rhythmic, stealing my breath. “Jace!” I shook his shoulder, my voice trembling. “Wake up! I’m bleeding!”

He bolted upright, hair disheveled, eyes bleary with sleep but wide with shock. “Bleeding? What do you mean?” I gestured to the stained sheets, and his face drained of color. “Oh God,” he whispered. “I’ll get dressed. Can you walk?” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure. The pain surged, wave after wave, leaving me gasping. I stumbled to the bathroom, where the sight of even more blood confirmed my worst fears. This wasn’t normal. This was a nightmare.

Then his phone rang, its shrill tone slicing through the air like a scream. Jace glanced at the screen. “It’s Mom,” he said, his voice suddenly distant. “Jace, please,” I gasped, doubling over as another cramp tore through me. “I need to get to the hospital now.” But he was already answering. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

I couldn’t hear Glenda’s words, but her panicked, high-pitched voice crackled through the speaker. “Chest… chest pains…” Jace repeated, his eyes widening. “Mom, I’m coming right now!” He hung up, grabbed his keys from the nightstand, his hands trembling—but not for me. “Mom’s having a heart attack,” he said, as if that justified everything.

“Jace, I’m losing our baby!” I screamed, trying to stand but collapsing back onto the bed, pain radiating through my core. He paused at the bedroom door, his back to me. For one fleeting moment, I thought he’d turn around, choose us. Instead, he said, “Call an ambulance. I’ll meet you at the hospital after I check on Mom.” The front door slammed, leaving me alone with the blood, the pain, and the gut-wrenching realization that my husband had chosen his mother over his wife and child.

St. Mary’s Hospital and a Silent Betrayal

The ambulance rushed me to St. Mary’s Hospital, its sterile white corridors and antiseptic smell blurring into a haze of fear. Doctors and nurses swarmed, hooking me to machines that beeped and hummed, but my mind was on Jace. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here, holding my hand, promising everything would be okay?

Dr. Valyria Carlos, the attending physician, had kind eyes but a trace of worry she couldn’t hide. “We’re going to do an ultrasound to check on the baby,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Try to stay calm, Felicia. Bleeding doesn’t always mean the worst.” But I saw the glances the nurses exchanged, the urgency in their movements. This was serious.

In the ultrasound room, I held my breath, praying for the familiar flicker of my baby’s heartbeat. After an agonizing silence, it came—thump, thump, thump—strong and alive. Tears spilled down my cheeks, relief flooding me like a tidal wave. “The heartbeat is strong,” Dr. Carlos said cautiously. “But you’ve had a partial placental abruption. The placenta has separated from the uterine wall, causing the bleeding. We need to monitor you closely. In some cases, it resolves, but there’s a chance we may need to deliver early.”

Early. At 26 weeks, my baby could survive, but the risks were immense. And Jace wasn’t here.

I lay in the maternity ward, the fetal monitor’s steady beep my only comfort, waiting for a call, a text, anything from my husband. Nothing. At 6 a.m., a nurse checked my vitals. “Any word from your husband?” she asked kindly. I shook my head, my throat too tight to speak. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she said. “Heart attacks are serious.” But I knew better. Even if Glenda was in the ER, Jace could’ve sent a message. His silence screamed louder than words.

By 8 a.m., Dr. Carlos returned with good news: the bleeding had stopped, the baby’s heart rate was steady. “You’ll need strict bed rest,” she said, “but there’s no reason to think you won’t carry to term.” I should’ve been overjoyed, but I felt hollow. The person I wanted to share this with—my husband—was gone.

At 10 a.m., I caved and called Jace. Four rings, then voicemail. His cheerful recorded voice stabbed at my heart. I texted: Baby and I are okay. Still at hospital. Where are you? No reply. By noon, fury replaced fear. I called Glenda’s house directly.

“Hello, Felicia,” she answered, her voice bright as if she were heading to a Kroger sale. “How are you?”

I froze. “Glenda, I’m in the hospital. I had pregnancy complications last night. Jace said you had a heart attack.”

A long, chilling pause. “Oh, just a false alarm,” she said airily. “I thought it was chest pain, but it was only indigestion. Poor Jace was so worried.”

Indigestion. My husband had abandoned me in a crisis for his mother’s indigestion.

“Where’s Jace?” I asked, my voice hardening.

“Sleeping, dear. The poor boy stayed up all night worrying about me.”

A cold truth began to take shape. “Can you wake him? I need to talk to him now.”

“Oh, I’d hate to disturb him. Call back this evening?”

“This evening?” I nearly screamed. “Glenda, I almost lost my baby last night!”

Another pause, then her voice turned icy. “You’re being dramatic, Felicia. These things happen. Jace says you tend to overreact.”

The line went dead. I stared at my phone, hands trembling. Overreact? What had Jace been telling her about me? And when?

The Deeper Lie

I took a taxi home from the hospital, feeling like a stranger in my own life. Our Columbus home, where we’d dreamed of our baby’s future, felt cold, lifeless. Jace’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Good. I wasn’t ready to face him.

I made tea and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the backyard where we’d planned a swing set for our child. Now, that dream felt like a cruel joke. My phone buzzed—Jace: Saw your car. Glad you’re home safe. Can we talk? I deleted it. Another: I know you’re angry, but we need to talk like adults. Deleted. A third: I’m coming over. I turned off my phone and showered, the hot water washing away the hospital’s antiseptic smell but not the sting of betrayal.

When I heard Jace’s key in the door, I took my time descending the stairs, making him wait, letting him feel a fraction of the anxiety I’d endured. He stood in the living room, unshaven, still in the clothes from two nights ago, looking like he hadn’t slept. “How are you feeling?” he asked, guilt lacing his voice.

“Like my husband abandoned me during a medical emergency,” I said flatly.

He winced. “Felicia, I’m sorry. I know how it looked.”

“How it looked?” I cut in. “This isn’t about appearances, Jace. It’s about choices. You chose your mother over me, over our baby.”

“We didn’t know it was just indigestion,” he protested weakly.

I locked eyes with him. “What did she say when she called?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “She said she had chest pains, thought it was a heart attack.”

“And when you got there, what did you find?”

He looked away. “She was… sitting on the couch. Said the pain was better.”

“Sitting on the couch,” I repeated. “Not collapsing, not clutching her chest, not calling 911. And you stayed all night comforting her while I was alone in a hospital, bleeding.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice rising. “Mom’s fragile. She needs me.”

“Fragile?” I laughed bitterly. “The woman who runs the church fundraiser, who planned your cousin’s wedding, who commands every room she enters? That woman is fragile?”

He stared at his hands, silent.

“When have you ever chosen me over her, Jace?” I pressed. “When have you ever said no to her?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence was deafening, heavy with unspoken truths.

“I want you to leave,” I said, turning to the window. “Go back to your mother’s. I need time to think.”

“Felicia, we can work this out,” he pleaded.

“Can we?” I faced him. “You don’t understand what you did to me, to us. You chose her, Jace. Every day since we married, you’ve chosen her.”

He left with a suitcase, and I sat in the silent house, trying to grasp how my life had shattered in mere days. But I didn’t yet know the depths of their betrayal.

The Conspiracy Unraveled

Three days later, the true horror emerged. I tried logging into our joint bank account to pay hospital bills, only to find it frozen. “Fraud investigation,” the bank representative said. “Your husband reported suspicious activity.”

Fraud? I checked our other accounts. The baby’s college fund—frozen. Our credit card—canceled. Even my personal checking account, in my name alone, showed a zero balance. I called that bank. “Funds were transferred to an account ending in 4847 on October 16,” the representative said. The day after my hospital stay, when Jace was supposedly comforting his mother. The receiving account? Listed under Jace Hunter and… Glenda Hunter.

Glenda Hunter? My mother-in-law had never taken her husband’s name. Why was she using it now?

I called our health insurance. “Your coverage was terminated yesterday,” the agent said. “Your husband reported a change in marital status—separation.”

Separation? We were still legally married! Jace had cut off every financial lifeline, leaving me penniless, uninsured, unable to pay for groceries or medical care.

Then my phone rang. Jace.

“What have you done?” I screamed.

“I’m protecting our assets,” he said coldly.

“From me? I’m your wife!”

“Are you? You kicked me out, said our marriage might not be worth saving. I’m protecting myself.”

“By stealing my money? Canceling my insurance? Leaving me with nothing?”

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

The world tilted. This wasn’t the man who’d cried at our first ultrasound. This was a stranger, cruel and calculated. “Who are you?” I whispered.

“Someone tired of being taken for granted,” he said. “And I’m wondering if that baby is even mine.”

I ran to the bathroom, vomiting as his words echoed. Our planned, cherished child—a “bastard” in his eyes. This wasn’t a guilty husband’s impulsiveness. This was a plan to isolate me, to erase me. And Glenda was behind it.

I opened our bedroom safe, where we kept vital documents: birth certificates, marriage license, insurance policies. It was empty. They hadn’t just taken my money—they’d stolen my identity.

The Killer in the Family

I spent the night scouring the internet for Glenda Morrison, or Glenda Hunter. What I found chilled me to the bone. Glenda hadn’t been married once, as she’d claimed, but three times. Her first husband, Jace’s father, died in a car crash when Jace was 12. Her second, Elliot Max, fell down stairs two years later—an “accident” investigated but closed for lack of evidence. Her third, Antonio Edward, died of a “heart attack” at 43, with no prior heart issues. Three husbands, three life insurance payouts, three convenient deaths.

Then I found the women. Valyria Braden, Jace’s girlfriend before me, died by suicide—overdose—three months before we met. Amanda Foster, another ex, died in a car crash on a winding Ohio road. Lisa Park, killed in a house fire labeled “electrical malfunction.” All loved Jace, all met Glenda, all died before their futures could unfold.

Glenda wasn’t just a controlling mother. She was a serial killer, and Jace was either her accomplice or her next victim.

My phone rang—an unknown number.

“Mrs. Hunter, this is Detective Maria Santos with the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. I need to speak with you about your husband and mother-in-law.”

“About what?” I asked, heart pounding.

“In person. 2 p.m. at the Starbucks on Main Street. Don’t tell anyone.”

The Deadly Dinner

Detective Santos sat in a corner booth, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “We’ve been investigating Glenda Morrison for months,” she said quietly. “You’re at risk of becoming her next victim.”

“You know about Valyria, Amanda, Lisa?” I asked.

“We do. And we suspect more. The question is whether Jace is complicit or manipulated.”

I thought of his cold voice, his calculated cruelty. “He’s complicit,” I said. “Willingly.”

Santos nodded. “We need your help to gather evidence. Go home, act normal, let them think their plan is working. We’ll have 24/7 surveillance.”

“Use me as bait?” I asked, voice trembling.

“To stop them from killing again.”

She handed me a small device disguised as a coat button—a panic button. “Press and hold for three seconds if you’re in danger. We’ll be there in two minutes.”

Two minutes. An eternity when facing killers. But I had no choice.

I called Glenda the next morning, feigning remorse. “I owe you an apology,” I said. “I’ve been unfair to you and Jace. Can I come for dinner tonight?”

A pause. “Very well,” she said. “6 p.m. I’m making pot roast.”

Glenda’s ranch-style house in a quiet Columbus suburb looked innocent—white siding, blue shutters, late-blooming mums. Jace’s car was in the driveway. He greeted me with a smile that felt too real. Glenda hugged me, her voice warm but her eyes cold as ice. “You look tired, Felicia. Are you resting enough?”

I sat between them on the couch, trapped like prey. Glenda brought me water, watching as I took a cautious sip, fearing drugs.

“Jace says you’re having financial troubles,” she said smoothly. “That’s just temporary. Jace is protecting your assets.”

“From what?” I asked.

“From you, dear,” she said, her tone condescending. “You haven’t been yourself. The pregnancy, the stress—it’s clouded your judgment.”

I swallowed my anger. “What do you mean?”

Jace took my hand, his concern fake but convincing. “We think you need help, Felicia. A facility called Serenity Hills, three hours north. It’s private, peaceful, for women struggling with pregnancy-related mental health issues.”

“Private?” I echoed, heart racing.

“No visitors for the first few months,” Glenda said. “And after the baby’s born, it can stay with us until you’re well.”

They wanted to lock me away, steal my child, live off my money. A perfect plan—no murder, no investigation, just a “tragic” case of a delusional wife.

The Final Showdown

I excused myself to the bathroom, texting Santos: They plan to commit me tomorrow. Need help now!

Her reply was instant: Stay calm. We’re listening. Get them to say more.

Dinner was silent, the clink of silverware and the ticking of Glenda’s grandfather clock deafening. I picked at the pot roast, wary of poison. “Tell me about Serenity Hills,” I said.

“It’s serene,” Glenda said. “No outside contact. The baby will be cared for properly with us.”

“And if I refuse?”

They exchanged a glance. “That’s not an option,” Glenda said. “Jace has spoken to Judge Kevin, an old family friend. He’s approved involuntary commitment for your safety—and the baby’s.”

“They’ve recorded me,” I said, standing. “Twisted my words to make me sound insane!”

Jace played a recording—my voice, broken and desperate from the night I kicked him out. “I can’t live like this. I want it to end.” Out of context, it sounded suicidal.

“You manipulated me,” I whispered.

“We documented your decline,” Glenda said, her sadness fake.

I bolted to the back patio, needing air, needing a plan. The high wooden fence trapped me, no neighbors in sight. Glenda followed, offering chamomile tea. I took it but didn’t drink.

“Glenda,” I said, voice steady, “what happened to Valyria Braden?”

Her mask slipped for a split second. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Jace’s ex. Suicide, three months before we met. Amanda Foster—car crash. Lisa Park—house fire. And your husbands, all dead so conveniently.”

“You’re paranoid,” she said, eyes like daggers.

Jace appeared. “She’s delusional again,” Glenda said. “Call Dr. Justin. She needs to go tonight.”

“No!” I shouted, backing toward the glass door. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Then you’ll have an accident,” Glenda said, pulling a small silver gun from her purse. “Pregnant women are so unstable. Falls, overdoses, crashes—they happen all the time.”

Jace grabbed my wrist, yanking the panic button from my pocket. “What’s this?” Glenda demanded, examining it. “She’s called the police.”

“You’re planning to kill me,” I said, voice steady despite my fear.

“Facility or grave,” Glenda said, aiming at my chest. “Your choice.”

I braced for the shot. Instead, a shout: “Police! Drop your weapon!”

Detective Santos and three officers burst through the door, guns drawn. “Drop it now!” Santos yelled. Glenda hesitated, then lowered the gun. “Glenda Morrison, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder,” Santos said, cuffing her. “Jace Hunter, you’re under arrest as an accessory.”

Jace glared at me, his mask gone, eyes burning with hatred. “This isn’t over,” he hissed. But it was.

Freedom and a New Beginning

In the Franklin County courtroom, I sat in the front row, cradling my four-month-old daughter, Emma Rose, as the judge delivered justice. “Glenda Morrison,” he said, “you are guilty of four counts of first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, fraud, and identity theft. I sentence you to life without parole.”

Glenda sat unmoved, poised as if at a Sunday service. “Jace Hunter,” the judge continued, “you are guilty of conspiracy, accessory to murder, fraud, and domestic abuse. I sentence you to 25 years to life.”

Jace turned to me, his face twisted with rage. I met his gaze calmly, Emma stirring in my arms, and felt only pity. He’d thrown away everything—his freedom, his daughter—for a mother who saw him as a pawn.

Outside, Santos found me. “How do you feel?”

“Free,” I said. “For the first time in months, I feel free.”

“You should be proud,” she said. “We linked Glenda to two more murders—women tied to her previous husbands. She’s been killing for 30 years.”

I drove to my small Columbus apartment, a far cry from the house Jace and I shared, but mine. Every chair, every picture, chosen by me. I sat by the window, Emma in my arms, watching the city lights.

Six months ago, I was naive, trusting a man who didn’t deserve it. Now, I’m a mother, a survivor, a woman who faced killers and won. Emma cooed, and I whispered, “It’s just us, baby girl. And that’s more than enough.”

I’d started freelance marketing work, earning honest money, building a future no one could steal. Someday, I might love again, but not yet. I needed to be whole, to never ignore red flags or excuse betrayal.

Outside, Columbus hummed with life—families, couples, normal people unaware of the darkness I’d survived. But I was part of that world again, free to build a life of strength and hope, for me and for Emma.